IL BAGNINO

I squint against the glint
And the gleam of the summer sun,
Which hums high above the pines.
It’s ivory-dry beneath
The cliffs this morning.

The beach stones bake 
Between the sdrai.
And bathers stagger to the water,
Chalky dust spinning spirals 
Around their feet.

The bagnino passes.
A fanny pack, 
Red like an apricot
And plump with euros,
Hugs his barebone hips. 

He’s got these
Bandy, tennis bowlegs.
Buzzed, wheaty hair.
A gold chain traces
His tanned collarbone.

Lost in his silhouette,
Cast white in the hot sky,
I can feel the sea 
And salt and sweat 
Clotting on my brow.

He passes again.
Our eyes meet like
A house and a wildfire.
He crouches beneath my umbrella,
Lifting its edges into the sunlight.

Cosa posso portarti?
Cold beer. Please.
Mozzarella. On lemon leaves.
Please. And thank you.
Prego.

He jets off,
Ass wagging
In his scarlet shorts
As he saunters back
Over the pebbles.

Three Italian girls,
All lean and lank and
Looking like boys,
Jump big into the water:
A glimmery splash.

What’s the word for the glimmer
Of sun on the water?
And, like that, the bagnino’s back.
My smile snarls high into my cheek
Like the hound I am.

Distracted,
He clacks the beer bottle 
Hard on the table. An apology. 
He empties the tray, 
He jets off.

Eau de sunscreen.
Brassy-green eyes.
Flat chest slabs.
Neon disco wristband.
Stop. You’re on the ropes.

You know how this ends.
Your obsession cleaved in two
Pretty halves on the floor. 
It’ll feel just like skin on ribs.
Drink your damn beer.

 
Year: 2018
Published by Counter Service