When I was young and feral full
living, in Cancun before
the drug money, the tourists, Club Med
the malls, chalingas—
I liked la lagoona side bars, half jutting
into salty water, tequila, rum ice
with a Spanish troupe of tour-dancers.
The manager of the Club Cuba told me
serious and sober
be wary of the Spanish flamencas
señor, por favor.
I listened close and carefully he
stood, then left his table.
I walked out the back to the docks,
away from the music, the loud
night still lagoon boats
at anchor. Down below
sea river rising
surface floating
like ready made leather shipping trunks,
camion pairs, salt water crocs,
inspecting the night
still-splayed on the surface
of the blue-clear water
searching for offal.
The male huge and menacing
the females sleek, fine, nervous.
Drunken blonde Spaniards speaking
perfect Castillian, laughing, wild
followed me out
side eyes down shrieking
as they saw a crazy-free gringo
catapult onto the backs of weightless
reptiles—foaming, dangerous, tail
whipthrash and
screaming.
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