Reading Hemingway at the Hotel
My long lithe rabbit lies
beside my crooked flank, my arm cocked
up to hold a book, the gypsy anarchists
erase the moon, deckchairs tile the twenty
miles to Morocco.
The sun escapes the sea, we eat green
figs on porcelain, two men fill skiffs
with sand, construct a firepit, grill
fish on skewer cane.
I sleep on long grass shadowed
by a broken tower, you say
"I will care for thee."
In our abandoned room, an old woman
in livery loosens our bedsheets,
wipes down the bidet, waves
to the fisherman whose father, long ago,
gutted her uncle on a table in Almeria.