Pequeña Pescadera,
Of red Guanche blood & ancient black
volcanic bone,
Darned in sinew,
skin & nerve, of Spanish island home,
Atlantic tears
rolling in, upon the taunting saltine breeze,
The icy coastal
rollers, all your dreams, they dare to freeze.
Pequeña Pescadera,
With your basket
& your pail, of fresh, fine finned & fishy ware,
Salted roses in
your cheeks, Neptune´s breath in windswept hair,
You´re forever
footed bare, but over rocks, you tiptoe sure footed,
Not for you yellow
oilskins, nor the heavy clomp clomping booted.
Pequeña Pescadera,
Your saltine
skirts go sashaying, around your salty rounded knees,
Calling to all
customers, “Mussels, octopus, come buy my fish please”,
Over brine washed
pebbles skipping, basket full, upon your pretty head,
Sardines, mullet,
whelks, snappers & the freshest lobsters in shiny red.
Pequeña Pescadera,
With the brightest
starfish in your eyes & your pretty cockled smile,
Casting nets of
hope & fishing, searching horizons & shores for miles,
Oh my pretty Pescadera,
I plead on knee, won’t you please marry me?
“No Sir, I will not
marry you, because I am only married to my sea.”
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