She told me obsequious wasn’t the right word, wasn’t the way to describe that grainy beach in loosely translated terms of something yielding and servile, but here it still is after decades of dispute in my head, revisiting the image of my friend and I swimming to an island in Acapulco, overcoming cuts from anemone and the possibility of being run down by daredevils, speedboats, and disparity, how we made our way breathless to the crest of that great hill where lay pieces of ancient sculpture and discovered within our younger selves those smoother, quieter things stronger than broken bottles, jagged stone, and inequity as obvious as a resort’s high noon sun, obvious as children braiding the hair of strangers and selling their soda to earn a few pesos for a large and hungering family, I decided to keep the word, keep the memory, because so few things are more obsequious than sand sinking beneath the grateful knees of someone returned safely to shore, and if I can pay more than a peso for something cold to drink, something fresh watered, bottled, or canned, that reflects the day and the state of my heart, I absolutely will, and I will keep my choice of obsequious, if for no other reason than I love the way it rolls off the wave of my tongue, and besides, it is my poem, and besides, it is my life. Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 10, 2024, all rights reserved
Posted in Poetry Month 2024