The Bride of Berlenga (a poem)

The Bride of Berlenga Island

The Bride of Berlenga

The sun the sun the sun the sun the sun the sun the sun catches in its pointed arrow a bag, a plastic bag, a clear plastic bag that has opened its mouth to the wind and is slowly rising while we sit in the café and open and close our own mouths before and after depositing espresso and croissants and we purse our lips to let in the cigarette smoke and purse them again to let it out and

nobody notices but the bag screams on its slow ride into the sky on invisible rails suddenly dropping and turning before rising again the silent mouth open against the backdrop of the terrible shit stained cliffs and

nobody notices, not the endangered birds who depending on the season are here to either mate or nest and from their sound its hard to tell which besides, the season changed from autumn to summer within a few hours and

not the bride the bride, oh the bride how we all loved to love her, her audacity to take the ferry to Berlenga Island in plain clothes only to step into the dress once there to become the Bride of Berlenga and all her friends turned paparazzi as did we with our phones, waiting for her to descend to the centuries old fortress where we ate our brought sandwiches in the new sun, the plastic bag still asleep in some unsealed pocket planning i’s escape and

we saw her again hours later where we sat waiting for the ferry bobbing just off shore to take us back to the mainland, take us back to our choreographed lives and she arrived on schedule bride of Berlenga and passed us smiling even when her tulle caught on the rough stones of the narrow path not wide enough for a donkey and

disappeared again around the mouth of the small bay harboring the even smaller and half shaded beach cordoned off at one side because of falling rocks and it’s cold in the shade so the goose pimpled people huddle into a sliver of the sliver that is increasingly shrinking from the shifting sun and tide, squeezed in as we are before the ferry takes us back to the mainland any moment and

the bride the bride was torn from a magazine, we knew but didn’t say she wasn’t beautiful but the day carried her and swept us up in the moment with it just like the bag rising, just like the dirt caught on the bottom of her bridal train but we won’t remember those details. We will remember the Bride of Berlenga high on the trail above us lifting her billowing white dress to see step after step on her way to the ocean and

the glittering golden light against the emerald waters.

 how it looked like she was floating, positively floating and

I’m just sure she smelled like fresh jasmine