by Richard Aston
I say “No fish” to the young Jamaican
who confronts me with a bucket of raw snappers.
My guilt in denying him is relieved
when the next man buys them all, freeing
him to return to his painted boat
that yields to his weight and purrs
into motion over the azure bay,
where the self-sufficient Jamaican—
dressed in red, violet, and yellow
fitted to his muscular black body—
fades into the sunlit colors on the horizon.
Copyright © 2003 by Richard Aston.