Plunge
Up before sunrise, bleary eyed,
watch them sweep poolside,
put cushions, wiping tables
clean of desert dust that settled
overnight, born on the backs
of dry, arid, stinging winds.
Bottled water boils in heat,
tabled by nimble feet; they greet,
in only degrees of separation:
different faces, different nations,
because passports carry power.
Today we are four driving south
to Sealine, leaving our houses
late afternoon, for sea, dunes
that become a desert gateway.
Free for all, this a rare holiday;
all are welcome, all will come,
bread and fishes served with sun,
watch her plunge into the sea.
Now I see – he’s looking at me
and my three Filipinas, taunting,
moisture tripping from tongue
after swimming, all have come.
We’re brothers, spirit levelled,
tatty clothes, shorts disheveled,
my one woman stands, strips,
flips in, the cool water grips
shirt tight to her chest – bound.
As she swims, it clings, he grins
he waves me, he’s beckoning,
insists I do likewise; follow in.
Response in kind, indicate shirt
that’s so far dry, free of sand, dirt,
of any menaces that lie lurking
beneath crumbling grainy sand.
But gestures with twisting hands
suggest that I could easily wring
out sopping cloth, take a plunge.
We shared something: I lunged,
tried to grasp what had passed
between us, and when, at last
I thought I had it in my hands,
it fell in drips on foreign lands.