Pearl Street

Pearl Street

by Marsha Recknagel

Even with the sea breeze, her neck is hot, her husband’s

broiled red as the lobsters on their smooth white plates.

She licks sweet butter from her lips that yesterday were pursed,

surprised at the steep price of happiness:

Her children hunkered down in sulks;

“No way!”  they cry in unison

to “smelly” clams, “slimy” oysters.

They poke at scallops with their forks.

Her husband's rash burns, his temper, the flame.

She says she’ll find the lady’s room--

A coil of spiral stairs takes her into

a half-moon cusp of courtyard,

brimming with flowers she can’t name.

Cupping a petal, she whispers, “Aquamarine,”

steps outside to stroll down Pearl Street,

past hundreds of blue hydrangeas

with blooms as big as babies' heads 

and galleries, the entries weathered-wood.

Behind one shop’s window, a portrait of a woman's ghost-like face,

A jaunty bird upon her head.

Pajarito en la Cabeza.

Birdy thoughts, the gallery man, Rodrigo, translates,

flapping hands around his ears. 

She touches her head with fingertips, tentative,

as if to check for birds 

or a tangled nest of words for hair

or hope or houses in Havana.