The Window, One Noon

Morning was a maqui berry smear
over the bay, that thumb of water where
citizens wailed aboard La Esmeralda.
To live on this margin of earth is to be
adrift. Where can one ground oneself?
My twin has fallen in love thousands
of miles away, but my lovers are alleys
on the next hill twined in clotheslines.
I could read a page of still, stale words—
or dash down for an empanada (or two).
Teenagers jostle on the sidewalk, the girls’
skirts swilling in the briny breeze. A man
laden with groceries hollers, laughing,
to a friend at the corner minimarket.
The woman on the terrace across the
street paints acrylic scenes for tourists
and neighbors. I will join them. I will
join them all.