The Beach of the Dead (He Said)

“I’ll meet you at sunset,” you said,
Tossing jumbled words over your sun-kissed shoulder.
Was it me you called out to,
Or was it your Rafael instead?
My hopeful ears heard you say
“Be at the Beach of the Dead.”
The sand grew cold between my feet,
Sipping tequila that went to my head,
Warming the places I’d offer to you,
Once we collapsed in my white linen bed.
Moment to moment the sun did its sinking
Upon the horizon, while I did my drinking,
And mulled over what you had said.
Was it the language that caused a mistake?
A misunderstanding inviting correction?
And not a blatant, left handed rejection?
These thoughts upon which I fed,
While sitting on the Beach of the Dead,
Caused me to question my comprehension,
Completely denying my intoxication,
Allowing the wandering of my attention,
Almost accepting an enticing invitation;
I admitted my grasp of the language was flawed,
Perhaps I was not so smart while abroad;
Paying my bill with a small sense of dread,
I crept slowly from the Beach of the Dead,
Alone for the night was better instead
To digest and translate what you must have said.

At morning I woke with little regret,
More than anything glad that we met,
Incentive complete with self recommendation,
That while visiting a neighboring nation,
To make no assumptions of what has been said
Or find oneself drinking alone with the “Dead.”

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