_______________________________________________________________

para ti,
que sempre entendeste tudo.

postcards

i'm thinking about you. what else can i say?
the palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
what we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
the air clear sweat, mosquitoes
their tracks birds & elusive.


time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
i move up, it's called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. the roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
in the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. each spring
there's race of cripples, from the store
to the church. this is the sort of junk
i carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.


outside the window
they're building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone's
crumbling dream. a universe that includes you
can't be all bad, but
does it? at this distance
you're a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time i saw you.
turn you over, there's the place
for the address. wish you were
here. love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.

margaret atwood