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Unlike the brittle sheen of winter or the oppressive glare of summer, October light along Portugal's southern coast is both crystalline and soft. Clarity and softness extend to the air, the blue of the sky, the way a body breathes. Nothing is hurried or complicated at noon. A beach rests within brackets of sandstone cliffs and waves tongue liquid emerald into a cave's soundless mouth.

I hitch up my skirt, wade out. With a good wind,

I could reach the horizon. Morocco in an afternoon.

For the Woman Who Wasn't Afraid to Wear Shorts


The woman at the train station wears yellow shorts

with blue flowers. Petals circumnavigate thighs,

knees one could drown in. She plants

a sandaled foot on her duffle bag, roars

when the conductor announces another delay

and the roar has me reaching for the wall.

I wonder about writing a poem for this woman,

wonder if I could please her. Would she break lines,

tear out words, add her own? Would she spill,

magnificently large, over the sides of the page,

flowers spreading over the floor, the counters,

and all the plastic benches in the waiting room?

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