11 December 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 4
The Tuna in Cabo
He sat there eating his tuna
And crackers, just like before,
Only this time, the rain
Was making the crackers
Soggy in the morning air.
At least, he thought
It was the rain: coastal showers,
The sand taking it all in,
Some higher power's blotter
For everything unknown.
She had given him the tuna,
The crackers, a soft, morning kiss,
To let him know that no one,
Least of all her, would ever
Think of leaving again.
It was because of this, the pale
Moon of an earlier dream
Had grown full,
And bright, and speculative
At the most opportune moments.
Example: she'd given him tuna.
He bit into the crackers,
Tasting her salt; tasting the sea
His grandfather had spoken of
Years before, supposedly to warn him
Of the darkness in water, but
Now, given all he'd learned
On his own, that water
Was purely her. He bit into
The cracker, swallowed
The tuna, too, and looked to the sky,
For a trace of orange moon
To wash it all down for good.
About the author:
Sam Pereira has published two books of poetry: The Marriage of the Portuguese (L'Epervier Press, 1978) and Brittle Water (Abattoir Editions/Penumbra Press, University of Nebraska at Omaha, 1987). His new book, A Café in Boca, will be published sometime in the next year by Tebot Bach. He has work in the current issue of Blackbird.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Sam Pereira at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 6, No. 4, where "The Tuna in Cabo" ran on December 11, 2006. List other work with these same labels: poetry.
