Hotel Island


With a good excuse the plane finally
Caught up with the climate.
A makeup toolkit was all there is to it:
A summer wedding,
A planned vacation,
An early booking
Tainted to a fault;
A traffic jam; a radio hit,
Side glances to summer heat.

In front of the station
A famous inn mimics
A burial chamber.
As when God is dead—
‘The train carriage runs
On a diet of human silence.’
You fancied her. She said.
From a door ajar
The toilette glow
Nodded in quiet.
Each abandoned to magic.
Let’s do it. She said.

Apple on a side table,
Stoic at every glance.
Hungry at length,
He reached for his phone.

Back in the islands:
With mouths to feed
Anchovies rival her expectation:
If on a holy week a wheel turned
And nothing moved with it,
They say all the good fish
Would land on a wrong table.
Thus, they prayed: ‘Mother of God,
Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour…’

She went for her nightdress.


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