after Neruda

On the near-island of Rovinj,
I have curled into a crab
like the one at the Aquarium.

I know the life blood of Croats
after tourism: suction cups
of squid sticking fast to the glass.

Nothing like St. Euphemia, who
stands at the highest peak
with her palm and wheel, her marks

of martyrdom. I feel well
rehearsed in that posture,
even though she remains 4th century.

How to be the bright copper statue,
untrammeled by a cool, dark bed?
Engulfed in sand and waves,

I find myself drawing a line.
But evening comes, and from six doors
down, the olive oil laughter of a vendor,

black-broomed, unmoneyed.
A lamp in the salted night air,
from gravity's side of the world.

Doctor Liz teaches poetry at Flagler College. Her poems have appeared in The South Carolina Review, Calyx, So to Speak, and The National Poetry Review.