European Territory
You are Switzerland:
a good vacation, a quiet sleep,
a thought perhaps that this
was the Garden of Eden
where we were telepathic
and unclothed all the time.
The water of you is too green, too calm,
too disposed to be trusted. Maybe it
will murder us one day. But for now
we like your version: it is perfection,
your green water is perfection.
You are serene and majestic,
unaffected and wisdom-born.
You are Inter Lachan expensive.
It would take a wealthy woman to reside in you,
which is fine, because you could always be alone.
People unsettle you,
but you are too quiet to let them know.
Instead, you retreat to places with rain, snow,
natural conflict. No argument.
You make the bed so precisely.
Excellence in handwriting, timeliness
and neutral ground.
I am Spain:
a GenX vacation where your luggage
gets stolen, a black-out sleep,
a hallucination perhaps that this is where
Adam and Eve were exiled to after the Fall,
the place where they ripped off their clothes
for the hell of it. Crowded, flagrant, excessive.
My water is always untrusted. It will kill,
and everyone knows it.
So far from perfection,
so near to annihilation.
I am the open market where you must fight
for a more reasonable price
on the mangos and seductive-sunny freedom.
Pamplona-traveled and tread-upon,
it feels obvious that it would take a man
full of bravado to turn my head,
which is fine, because there are plenty out there.
The bed is never made.
Always filling with argument and wonder,
no point in singing of excellence,
only surrender.
You will continue on as Switzerland.
I'll go my way as Spain.
People will come to you for peace.
People will come to me
to get their luggage stolen.
© Carrie Amestoy
1998
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