Meals We Won't be Eating

there is a bay of blue water

the air smells of salt and whatever it smells like

when mangroves are nearby

and in that bay swimmers are swimming

and dreaming of

shrimp, fried on the beach

sizzling, lime, cabbage, red tomato cubes

and on the bottom of the bay is white white sand, rippled

and translucent glowing with inner

whiteness

and one little green trees of algae waves

on the white dunes

under the blue water

under the hot sun

and the smell of ocean

smelling like

death and salt

and we are not there, we are not there

there is a giant white oak on a hillside

circled by green cabernet vines

the grass above the color of light suede

the afternoon breeze moves the grape leaves as one

tuning the whole hillside in the sun

and in the brush is a wild boar

fat with acorns

sleeping in the heat

eyes closed

and when the sun sets the winemaker places a bottle

on a stump uncorks it

smells the deep oaky smell of it

and he lights the barbecue

of oak chunks

and the smoke blows out into the field

and he removes the white paper, soaked in red red blood

from a substantial fatty cut

of a flank

and he soaks it in worsteshire

and rosemary from the garden

and peppercorns

and when the coals are hot and smokeless

he will throw it on the grill

and people will emerge from the sun baked house

and laugh in the evening air

and close their eyes to the warm setting sun

and show their necks to the evening mosquitos

and we are not there, we are not there.