Ann Wood Fuller

June 2001

Untitled Collection


The Last Resort


How easily the Caymen sky
opened up its dawn, conch-pink,
and we, already having had our first drink
out on our lanai,

the heat-crowned palms fanned-out,
the sun-beaten
bougainvillea, a height
just right
for us to go about

without our clothes- - -
and you, already bored with the shells, the native straw, the shops
of GeorgeTown dropped,
like the breadfruit drops, into a chair and closed

yourself so quickly with your robe against the leeward wind,
which must be
while we were inside
we never felt the heat on our sunburned skin

through all those stick nights
when even the furniture would sweat
and you kept
walking the sandy floor to spite

the bed, but somehow through it all I didn't mind
the wind
or, for that matter, the sand---
how easily it filled a wound, one grain at a time

Thanksgiving


Leave the sunset to its pink temper; the air,
like the smell of medicine in a closed room. Come, rest your chin
on the dormer sill in this house, this mortgaged ground

and watch the sunset close this place, a capsule
of pale view, where groves of oranges rot,
and somber groups of heron graze near the bay.

The sunset sways the boulevard: the palms ring
their manes over the Linclon, white as a collar,
parked in the drive.

The table is prepared, the yawning Lalique,
stuffed with beautiful ice cubes, the water
clear enough to breathe.

A thicket of chairs is pulled
away from the asthmatic crevices
of the room, and soon

we will sit and eat the flesh of animals
smoked in fruits and herbs and chatter
on about our changing lives, the stubborn heart unchanged.


House For Sale

suffer these ruins of what never was.
Richard Howar
d

This house once served it hosts
like guests,
giving its best room, its two good chairs
cheerfully.
The walls gave back a rich response
from the cedar growing once
and held in the warmth, held up the roof.
Aloof
in its wooden trim,
this house breathed in
the gulf's salt-air for years.
It listened to each bird-complaint in the eaves.
Now behind each window-dark face,
this house waits like a body waits,
wanting
to be claimed. Oh, I feel old,
held
here in these childless rooms.
How well each post slips into its beam,
the floors broomstung, the tongue
obedient in its groove.
Outside, the night grows
grey.
A young scrub oak
knocks
against the clapboard like a hand. 

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