La Romana

by Robert Wardell

Vermilion shoes stepping

over the vermouth-soaked tiles,

the clasp of wine glasses

holding those exquisite

dry grapes

against porcelain plates with

tongue twister dishes.

A cuisine of spoken incantations

chanted like ancient spells and hymns.

Like the flamingos trotting through

the sapphire marina water,

they move so confidently,

gracefully. At no older than 20

a collective mastery of form,

restraint and elegance

draped over the drunken stupor.

A bise here, a bise there,

they mingle and mix

along the marble tables,

asking your school

to see where you’re from?

No – to make sure you belong.

Asking your name

to get to know you?

No – to see if you’re worth their time.

They dance a foot dance.

That ritualistic mating call.

Tapping the Chanel stilettos

amongst the Armani boots,

a figure eight amongst the tables

weaving through the champagne mists,

in the body of great splendor.

I sit here,

a poignant, festering thumb

pasted onto a hand

blinged with shiny rocks.

I must flay the shine desperately,

whisking my fool’s gold ostentatiously.

A mimicry mocking of glamour,

such foreign ways of being.

Is this my North Star to heed?

Is opulence the objective?

To glorify my last name?

To brutalize for the tranquility?

To live amongst a gentry?

Whether daughter of a dignitary,

son of an heir,

socialites skimming

plata from the platanos,

laughter is all they share.

They sway and they circle,

but their movement is a trance,

for they are kneeled upon,

blessed. They dance an

endless dance.