SANTA LUCIA PARK

In the confidenciales you sit opposite
each other, two facing seats of cement
joined in one white-washed pour,
a lovers' nest lodged in bricks paving
the park red. Learning to cook Mayan,
my wife's gone for the day, leaving
a seat empty, her Ashkenazi face
bold as any color found in Yucatan.

Finding a tiled arcade in the deepest
corner of the square, young couples
kiss and touch openly, safe for each
other in the privacy of a public park.
One older man, safe for himself
in the bronzed comfort of his own age,
holds his wife's purse, freeing her
to taste the sweet sting of nuts
and honey, charred brown on a bun.

Painted white ten feet up, palm trees
shelter the park from noise and smoke,
the yellow flowers of flamboyanes
turning sun to shade at noon, winds
from the west skinning heat off the air,
desire - in both the young and old -
rising in muted chants of benediction.

THE SKATER

A generation older than anyone else
skating, he ties each lace in loops
of long knots, fading black leather
scuffed at the heel like the bottom
of his hands. Arms pumping rhythm,
he cuts the rink in two, quarters it,
skating patterns learned young--
on winter lakes, in small town parks
flooded to make ice. Memory picks
each claim from the past he owes
a turn. Runners finding air, he hears
a waltz in the disco sound the rest
of the rink is listening to. Carving
figures in a style he's kept his own
since ten, he bends the beat back
in small circles of art, skating
the ice with grace earned years ago.

Garland Strother is a native of north Louisiana and a retired librarian, who now lives in River Ridge, LA, near New Orleans with his wife, Liz, also a librarian. His poems have appeared in Louisiana Review , Arkansas Review, Texas Review, Common Ground Review, Plainsongs, Christian Science Monitor, Big Muddy, Foliate Oak, Southern Hum, Loch Raven Review, Orange Room Review, and others.

Email: Garland Strother

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