The green girl waited at the pier.
Hovered around the black pylons,
wet and rotting, lashed by the waves,
painted in abstracts
by sea moss.
Fernando pushed out his boat.
Young, brown, muscular and carefree.
The birds screeched in anticipation
of his return. Sea lions pretended
not to notice. Nets neatly rolled,
ready for an early winter catch.
Oil lamp in the bow.
She slid into the lancha. Undulated,
coiled beneath the tackle. Weeks later
they found him washed up on the beach
near turtle rock, a smile on his blue lips.