Candice Wilson
									      Reflections 2000
									
Las Terrenas

Facing the mirror
correcting a crumpled dress
that will not uncrumple

Smoothing tangled hair:
mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Snow White lives here no more

A familiar route
of liquid red on curved lips—
a dark siren’s call

A lover’s moon drifts,
alone in the blackened sky. 
She turns off the lights

Hemorrhaging moon—
in its wake: a trail of blood
stains the surging waves

Like a burning eye
the red moon illuminates
faces in the dark

Slick sands gleam wetly
raised red dress reveals her knees
dimpled in the night

She settles her mask
slowly, moistens ruby lips
provocatively

Her eyes capture his—
once again the same routine
for one full night— his

She closes the door,
worn foreign bills exchange hands,
again the same words

He mouths, I love you,
the moon bright through the window
floods her open eyes

Afterwards he smiles
his absent hand pats her head—
she smiles, absently

*           *           *

Cabarette

The night breathes softly
stirring sands along the shore—
my footprints dissolve

The smell of the sea
lingers on sun-soaked dark skin,
eyes burning with salt

A pregnant, pale moon
rides low upon midnight clouds,
heavy with moisture

Above, a star falls
an angel flung from the skies
no one to catch it

Moonlight on water
reveals my wavering face,
small against the stars

And for one moment
a face surrounded by stars
floats on clear water

Clouds blindfold the moon,
falling rain like skipping stones—
ripples on water

The hidden moon leaves
only shadows on the shore—
left without a face

*      *      *

Pico Duarte

Reaching the campsite 
unable to catch my breath—
reaching for the phone

So hard to describe
the sound of the wind at night…
like a cold mule’s cry

Wrapped inside the womb
of a thermal sleeping-bag,
eyes squeezed tightly shut

Wishing for daylight—
until it coldly arrives
with frost on its breath 

Skiing in red mud
Iguana leans right, I left…
left without a mule

Trapped in a nightmare
of digestive red muck, ah!
the Venus-fly trap

Staggering in mud
Every boulder calls my name—
I greet them each time

A ladder of roots
I climb up into the skies,
still not high enough!

From here I can see,
the distance I have traveled—
a second in time

On my narrow path
small clusters of flowers bloom—
the smell of twilight

Camera eager,
I pause to capture the view,
alone, on the trail

From out of the mist
a lone rider approaches,
I rise to meet him

Eyes rooted to ground, 
ascending, others descend—
smiles urging me on

Scaling the summit
How lovely to see…nothing
at the top of the world

*     *     *

Francois

The Haitian, Francois:
a man known by many names
except for his real one

Living secretly
in a country that scorns him,
forced to forget patois

Winking in and out
like an eye upon his ear—
a small gold earring

Feet in heavy boots
he trudges up muddy hills,
as though level land

Another day’s work
working with coffee
on land that’s not his

Dirty, work-worn hands
cradle tiny coffee plants,
head bowed in the sun

*           *           *

Snapshots

The blue tarp flies free
we mimic “The Three Monkeys”
and leap for the ties

Like migrating birds,
always making each home theirs,
flying between homes

Hands supporting hers,
they lay the final boulder
to preserve their home

*            *            *

The Dance Club

       The dance music coils sinuously around my spine to settle like wine within my mind.  My body, feeling disconnected from rational thought, declares “mutiny” and proclaims independence through a series of dance moves akin to a mental patient having an epileptic fit.  Suddenly tired, my dance partner excuses himself and melts into the shadows only to reemerge a few moments later with a buxom girl in tow for the next dance.  He avoids my eyes and I smile.  For now it is just the music and I — alone in the midst of hundreds, old friends who go back a long way.  And I loosen myself to the embrace of the melody.  Like a body without bones I sink, lost in a world of fluttering lights, surrounded by a constellation of whirling faces painted in shades of day and night.

Awake in a dream,
And falling without moving
Inebriated.

A Portrait of Bolo

       “I love you,” Bolo says, peering sincerely into my eyes as we dance to the wafting Bachata music.  My eyes open wide as I stare down at his movie-star-like features.  
“Don’t you really mean that you love Rosa Maria?” I struggle out in Spanish, sure that I had misunderstood the ardent words spoken from the fifteen year-old mouth.   
“Sure I do,” he helpfully agrees.  I smile in relief.  Bolo grins.  “But I love you too.”  
“And what about Corinna?” I inquire after a moment, indicating the other American girl dancing on the packed patio.  “Do you love her also?”  Bolo turns his head and regards Corinna intensely for half a minute.  “I don’t know, I have not danced with her yet.”  He smiles, the smile of a lover.  “So…do you have a boyfriend in the States?”