Carla at the Miramar

Carla at the Miramar

Carla at the Miramar

Dry laughter bursts
from her narrow throat
like a stampede of wildebeest
kicking up dust.

She was holding court at the bar.
Behind her the dull-brown Beira sea
a mocking backdrop to the bravado.
Later she sauntered over,
high heels tapping against
the chipped concrete floor,
faded red skirt clinging
to her weightless body.
And tucked into the frayed collar
of her turquoise blouse, a spray
of pink flowers, petals falling
as she walked towards me,
one hand extended, the other fluttering;
a bruised wing.

Our hands meet, strangers’ palms
finding an unexpected equivalence.
In the safety of brevity
a bracketed recognition:

(presence   flesh    life    death).