Twice a month, our mothers went
to the Kontiki Palace. Told us
tales that made us want to be
old enough to date-
in rhinestone strap dresses,
shoes dyed to match, going
with the greased-back-hair guys
dressed in shark skin suits
that looked blue-gray
pizzazzed with a sometimes glint
of our favorite color, pink-pink.
At the Kontiki Palace,
they drank from ceramic coconuts-
brought us back paper umbrellas
and green plastic swords piercing
canned pineapple chunks and maraschino
cherries that stained our tongues.
Once in a while they ordered
the scorpion bowl which was set
in the middle of their table with four arm length
see-through straws sticking out of it
like legs. Orchids were strewn
on top of ice, alcohol and fruity juices.
It made them wild.
Once an hour,
a jungle rain would pour down
the rock walls they lounged near. Dangling
their shoes on the tips of their toes,
feigned fear until the men
hugged them. Thunder beat
time to pulsing native drums
as they sank back on black plastic banquettes
that made sticky sounds
when they lifted their thighs.