Coca Cola Zero Peach
The trick of light is to be
whatever it falls on.
The window-sill, the fridge,
a can of coca cola zero peach.
She has been naked all day,
hung over, careless.
The trick of the light is to be
her body beyond flattery.
She stands at the fridge, thinking
a little, taps her finger on her hip,
her bracelets jangle. In the lounge
where her friend is still asleep:
cheap coffee table,
half-forgotten smear of white dust.
The light is entire.
The hotel cleaners waiting in the wings
with yellow gloves,
mops and murmured songs, see everything.
* * *
And the light is the Isla de sa Porrassa,
mute, dull shoulder in the water,
forgetful rock drawing the vision
out to the haze and the far horizon
seen over the old new-build balcony,
over the deck-chairs and the ash-trays.
The light is the inflatable plastic thing
floating with an inane grin
drifting further and further and in the long
light after noon further away.
Christopher Riesco lives and works in Manchester, UK. He is a graduate of
the Writing School at MMU. He attempts to do things with words following
the Metaphysical Poets and their Spanish opposite numbers.