Taranto

He slaps an octopus awake

in this place of suffocation.

I protest by not entering,

partake by watching.

She walks backwards with a mirror

past crates of oranges with green leaves

and white fish splayed in plastic trays.

Her polka dot sneakers trail through the sand.

She turns to the sea, walks to the edge.

Her black gloved hands pluck at her ears

and the wind ripples her T-shirt,

manic against her stillness.

Now she sees him scooping up shellfish.

She steps closer, gently invasive,

strokes the back of her head with her finger.

Her yellow scarf is a kite in the wind.

He glances up. She walks to his side.

His eyes follow in a silent dance,

until his eyes meet hers;

they exchange a few words.

She turns to another

who shouts quattro, quattro,

but still her eyes are on him.

She draws him in

until he waves his hand in the air

and goes back to his work, smiling.

The smoke from the chimneys across the bay

fills their lungs like an incoming tide,

and yet they choose to stay,

and the dance below goes on,

and when I look up

they both stand beside me.

Her scarf has turned purple.

He gives me an orange,

and a broken black net

tied to the railing below me

flutters like a lover’s ribbon.