Amanda Daly

We took a walk to have one of those
conversations that cannot be had
among dock-side restaurants
and effervescent mohitos
with their innocent mint leaves and
crystallized cane straws, stirred mostly--
only sucked through by the string-tied señoritas--
and stuffed pompano-fish wafting
from beneath barnacle-bottomed
“Meet Me in N’awlin’s”
and “Grouper(2)” sea-stays.

This is where talk should be
tonic-watered down
with comparisons of nopales
and local chile chocolateers,
Evanovich, or for some
dolphin-eaters, Hemingway.

No, we could not say
what needed to be said there,
so we walked, lighted inside the banyans.
There is safety in inanimate numbers.
And you, wishing that we not discuss
such permanent matters, longed
for the steel-drum band
as you cross-legged
in a break among
the wooden stalagmites
looking as if the cave
should swallow you down.