Hope, As The World Is A Scorpion Fish

On the near-island of Rovinj,
I have curled into a crab
like the one at the Aquarium.

I know the life blood of Croats
after tourism: suction cups
of squid sticking fast to the glass.

Nothing like St. Euphemia, who
stands at the highest peak
with her palm and wheel, her marks

of martyrdom. I feel well
rehearsed in that posture,
even though she remains 4th century.

How to be the bright copper statue,
untrammeled by a cool, dark bed?
Engulfed in sand and waves,

I find myself drawing a line.
But evening comes, and from six doors
down, the olive oil laughter of a vendor,

black-broomed, unmoneyed.
A lamp in the salted night air,
from gravity's side of the world.

Copyright © 2007 Liz Robbins All rights reserved
from Hope, As The World Is A Scorpion Fish
The Backwaters Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission