Plunge

 

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 slips in drips on foreign lands.