We are walking down the streets of Cordova now.
My wooden shoes click on the stones,
accompanying the ballet of your new tan
hat as it flops. The plums we bought
from the smiling wrinkly man at the fruit stand
are almost gone now. I drag my finger
over the trickle of juice that has run down
my arm, and taste it.

I do not remember that this is our first time
in Italy. The air tastes like a mouthful
of olives and salt, or maybe just a single
magnolia petal, chewed delicately, but I
don't want to decide as I pull you laughing

up the hill. We get to the top,
and I'm not sure we are even allowed here.
The ocean is lapping the shores below,
and kissing all of the tiny people
in their miniature swimsuits, but we
cannot hear it, or else, we mistake it

for the rustling of the trees above.
I fall back into the grass. The earth
holds me, and when I close my eyes,
it rocks me in my crisp blue shirt
like I am a sailboat. My skirt is tossed
around my ankles, and I am becoming
stained with the greens and browns of this orchard.

Now, I hear the sound of you smiling.
I roll over, and lying on top of you,
whisper this poem out loud.
Your hair has a few small twigs in it;
I steal your hat and run barefoot
into the vines, hoping that you will follow,
forgetting about our reservation.