Fences

Mouths full of laughter,

the turistas come to the tall hotel

with suitcases full of dollars.

Every morning my brother makes

the cool beach new for them.

With a wooden board he smooths

away all footprints.

I peek through the cactus fence

and watch the women rub oil

sweeter than honey into their arms and legs

while their children jump waves

or sip drinks from long straws,

coconut white, mango yellow.

Once my little sister

ran barefoot across the hot sand

for a taste.

My mother roared like the ocean,

“No. No. It’s their beach.

It’s their beach.”

Copyright Credit: Poem copyright ©1991 by Pat Mora, whose most recent book of poetry is “Adobe Odes,” University of Arizona Press, 2007. Poem reprinted from “Communion,” Arte Publico Press, University of Houston, 1991, by permission of the writer and publisher.