Brian Michael Barbeito
The Ancient Sea
my mother read books and I watched the sea, but from a balcony. she read thick books and read The Thorn Birds in four days, which was a miracle to me as I looked on. there was not much but the tropical paradise which was enough. I watched the lizards and birds and roamed on my own, a bit further each time than I was allowed. she said the men on the balcony across the way were “bad men,” because they waited day and night in shifts watching the ocean for a package to wash up. she said to stay far away from them if any of them arrived down at the sea. they didn’t come down though. just an elderly man w/ one of those metal detector machines searching always for treasure. I suppose he found his share of lost rings or watches or bracelets or necklaces through the years. he had one of those tans so deep I don’t think it would ever go away. a tan like certain memories in time, or words in old softcover novels. I sat on the old abandoned catamaran—beige and sturdy and stationed perfectly between the sea and where the world began for real behind. that is a liminal and almost unknown physical and psychological and spiritual space. the day would fall as strong as it had been. fall to dusk. the shapes softened. the visual sense lessened and the audio essence more in tune or pronounced. and maybe the inner sense also. I couldn’t see the treasure hunter. or the balcony men. I couldn’t see the water that well either. but I somehow knew the way back. I remembered the way home then. mother still reading. a stack of novels by her side, and beyond out the windows, the distant sounds of the tide.
Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet and photographer. Recent work appears at The Notre Dame Review.