ANA

by Juanita Rey

I’d sit on the ledge with my Aunt Ana,

dipping our toes in sea water,

letting the minnows nibble our toes

and laughing.

I was seven years old

and she seemed not much older

though she was my mother’s youngest sister –

the wild one so they said

with her slinky dresses,

high heeled shoes,

and underthings drying on the outside line

that, folks whispered,

no respectable woman

would ever think of wearing.

She loved that Caribbean wind

blowing her hair loose

and the tang of fish and salt.

She’d lead me barefoot

along the sand,

into the cascading waves

that rolled up to her deep brown thighs.

She loved to pick up stones and shells,

rub them for good luck.

And she’d investigate the rotted planks

that drifted shoreward.

To her, there was something of pride’s folly

in the wreckage of old ships.

though she didn’t miss a chance to sway her hips

should some local hunk stride by.

I have just returned briefly for her burial.

I heard the men talk

when they didn’t know I could hear.

And the women too

when they invited me into their circle.

Lascivious or sententious – just different shades of lies.

  

I preferred the ocean’s epilogo –

unknowable but cool.

* * * * *

Juanita Rey is a Dominican poet who has been in this country five years. Her work has been published in Pennsylvania English, Opiate Journal, Petrichor Machine and Porter Gulch Review.