Aug '02 [Home] Poems on Key West by George Wallace [Three of these poems were published in March 2002 by a small Key West newspaper, Small Blue Shark. Another was read on a live video feed which airs on the Key West Authors' Coop (kwac) website—Eds.]

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green mangos there is a kiosk at the end of the road with a sign that says road ends here and a man who sells green mangos and a bar that hemingway never drank in. last month in maine at the other end of the road i saw a man on a ladder in an apple orchard, his head and his arms and his hands were lost in the deep green foliage of his work. anyhow work is good for the soul, i figure, and ladders make for good climbing. in fact, i have heard it said that somewhere there is a ladder which climbs all the way to heaven. at the end of the ladder is an image of god and a man wearing dark sun- glasses with a parrot on his left shoulder. he is sitting under a sign that says post- cards of god sold here, it is written in bright pastel chalk. someone asked him the other day, dude, what's with the parrot? nobody eats green mangos any more, he said. so he keeps the bird to attract the attention of people who are more interested in parrots than they are in the image of god wind in the keys southern waters, holding to earth's plain horizon; a crosswind from gulf to ocean. i am awake to what is sleeping in key palms tonight, how innocently they throw back their heads; it is the kind of wide- eyed astonishment, the mock sighs, men normally associate with independent women; & this island is a fine big mama embracing the world tonight, too much for just one man; across caroline i hear blue laughter, nightstars fly as fishing men leave their boats & defiance dockside & go into the bars; here is the ocean in its breeze, grandfather to hurricanes, rising up for another dance; someone has something they wish to tell someone & the means; i can read the signs, key west, the sweet resisting arch of your neck, the swelling of your breast as midnight approaches; it is enough, key west, i hear coconuts roundly falling silhouette fish the sanderlings being what they are, white as sand, chase up breakfast. in the sweet lapping inlet silhouette fish are gathered again. all sizes really you can see them from the end of the pier at night. a spotlight adds to the water's transparency out there. i have seen them from above with their long slow swimming motions. fish have their own way of going about their business and so do sanderlings. as for me, i am fishing for dawn and the sun, and have not seen that yet. only three fists of light from behind a ban of easterly headed rainclouds. rain at night is good, while the stars are in their element, preening. rain at night, while a good stiff breeze rifles through the palms. i can smell morning approaching now as the shadow of a pelican hauls in. he dives into still water and emerges carrying something in his mouth. no, not a fish. i am thinking night's last dark which will fly with it toward a southern horizon. cuba is out there somewhere too waiting to be accounted for. but it is night i see, turning its long low back on the world. night likes to have one last look at the shape of heaven. i have heard it muttering at dawn when everyone else is sleeping. there will be another reckoning, says night. though this is not the hour. at southernmost point because it is not yet dawn, i pick my way cautiously along this dark beach, to where duval street meets the southern sea, imagining how tropical flowers must blossom at night, in seawalls, even in the cracks of pearock, although we cannot see them. i am in my groaning middle age, it is february, i am drinking another beer on a concrete pier in key west watching scorpio set sail, fat as cuba, on a stiff caribbean breeze. do you remember how we sat together once, how we talked and loved and dreamed? you speak so softly, you said, it draws a person in. listen! i will speak to you softly tonight, more softly than that, until one day you will hear my voice again, even in your dreams, even after i am gone into my deep and final silence. green step reef fish in the buttonwood, blue indigo in the bottle; peace has been declared on big bone island; between seagrass and the waves even the fat gray lizard is confused; give us this day our coral cloud; cay hueso suns itself on a long white seawall; the breast of day leaks easily out of the sea; this is the warbler moment when dawn holds commerce with its many black pelicans; life takes one green step forward; just as a house- cat named emmanuelle sits down, right in it the fish who would not swim with fishes i the fish who would not swim with fishes is naming the elements tonight. and tonight there are so many more of them. he draws a circle in the sand. "this is my ocean," says the fish who will not swim with fishes, and he listens. a tiny wave crashes into the beach. "and that? that is my coral reef," he says. he times his stunning laughter to the waves. the fish who would not swim with fishes turns quarterside up to the moon, smiling. the dry sand feels fine in the caught motion of his fins. ii in the hall of fishes there had been talk of clouds in the treetops. unexpected tropical breezes. rain squalls across azure water. someone had even suggested a lavendar sunrise with no bubbles in it. such talk is good enough for the other fishes. but the fish who would not swim with fishes was never satisfied with talking. he imagined himself among the people of the island. and then he became what he imagined. iii now he stands up for a better look at the surface of the sea. "amazing," he says, looking at the moonlight on his glistening torso. "i could fit a nice pair of pumps on these dorsals." he extends a fin to an imaginary friend. "shake hands with mister fish!" the fish who would not swim with fishes looks down at his feet. he is content for the first time in his life. the fish who would not swim with fishes walks off in the direction of the city. iv here is the fish who would not swim with fishes. he is stepping lightly across the boulevard, dressed in sequins. the traffic lights change from red to green whenever he approaches the corner. "i like that suit," says the fish who would not swim with fishes. "oh definitely, you have got to try a pineapple smoothie!" a woman on vacation from chicago glances appreciatively in his direction. of course she accepts his invitation to dinner. all night long he woos her with tales of the old days, when he lived in the ocean. the people at the next table strain to hear their conversation. v everyone in town knows the fish who would not swim with fishes. and whoever doesn't know him pretends they do. next month he is flying to new york. he has been invited to host a special on mtv. vi "how can i get my work done with so many distractions?" scowls the fish who would not swim with fishes. "i barely have time to work on my tan." he stares for hours at the manhattan skyline. he motions in the direction of the people in the crowd. "it is all too much," he says. but it is not just them. he turns his eyes to the sky. he turns his eyes to the sea. the fish who would not swim with fishes has begun to question the air. night storm nothing lasts on this island save by bending, she said, this way and that, to the things which are visited upon it; see how the tropical wind carries water mountains across the coral shallows tonight; a storm rises up like flagler's train; of course that was demolished in '36 by some greater force traveling through; here on cayo huesa, she said, that which is not a star in heaven does not speak to us in sky language; she admitted she too was compelled one night to surrender what was most precious in her love, for some practical reason; peace, drug money, truce among friends; scant reason, she admitted, to the fierce winds which rip this island; yet there is something still and undeniable, a small truth, one which may be heard only in the calm which follows a sudden night storm.

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