Inscription on Sand

Today the shore is a battleground
where last night, waves were luscious, lilting,
a librado accompaniment to our arm-in-arm slow dance.

Today waves roll white near shore where pelicans arrive
establish a bobbing line, all backs to the sea
their axe-bills tools for gobbling up offal.

We said few words, watched the waves take Cindra away
from our shore to the one she’d already taken us
with her astonishing meditation for leaving the body.

There should have been an elegy for the ashes
strewn before us on the beach last night
like Russo’s “Lives are like rivers,” but I could be wrong.

Black, lithe, bow-and-arrow-shaped frigatebirds
soar over pelican armada, dart toward fish guts in the sea.
It looks like frigatebirds zero, pelicans one.

Cancer took her from us, and we gave her ashes to the sea.
Today we sit up-beach as the fisherman with his tart cigar
transfers fish catch to a seaside apartment.

Fisherman returns with new line, bait,
hands busy as claws flinging sand from lairs
as the river slicing beach between La Penita and Guayabitos.

My craving is white waves on distant reefs
midway between Isla de Coral and attainable paradise,
undeniable as crystal clear waters under a waxing moon.