is an online magazine of the literary arts.

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.



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