She imagines her name is Juliet,
Brown-haired girl of the Spanish plaza,
She wears the sun like a sombrero,
Dancing her beating heels across
The cobblestones of an outdoor café,
Toppling a drunken laugh onto
The splintered wooden tables,
Pock-marked of the pedestrians
She muses the city is a scar.
She spends her mornings
Sewing squares and lacing
Into braided centerpieces for men
By American names of Jack and Sam.
Men of pale skin who love her
On Saturday nights, kissing
The sweat from her caramel neck
As if the odor of her skin
Were some succulent, foreign fruit.
She willingly obliges their frozen drinks
And pricey cabana daiquiris,
Then returns them to their wives
Like spent fortunes.
She vows one day to leave
The fields of dust, the tumbleweeds
And blistering strings
Of the bracelets she makes for
Her overbearing Madre, arthritic wrists
Twisted of ten kids and the
Saltwater back-streets of Cancun.
For now she marries the frozen forms
Of isolated mountains,
The seaside fury of brown toes
And sunburned shoulders.
She tosses a smile towards the sea;
wears the noise of the city
Like a satin slip as she pushes
The color of night across her left breastLike a bra-strap, mis-sewn.
Written for a 'Postcard Poetry' prompt at Pink.Girl.Ink.