Remember Santiago, she asks,
and the mist that fell like a lacy veil
on the dark green foothills?
Remember the plink of guitars
in the lazy hands of locals
in that village just beyond the suburbs?
I recall the echoes
of the voices of the sellers
from the market below our window
and the taste of liquor in her mouth.
I tell her, yes,
because the moon tonight
in West Virginia
reminds me of her wet feet
across the veranda
and the smell of campfires
that glowed from the slums,
the echo of laughter
in the distance
on a Saturday
in a country from a map.
A contest entry
- journey by Melissa Gayle.
700 points, ended July 16, 2008, 8 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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I always say this about most of your work, I know, but this is truly beautiful, and vibrant, too--and you know I would love the reference to West Virginia
I miss your writing a lot.
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It is nice to see you posting again Scott, this is wonderfully done.
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