Blue silk and pearls,
she sits in the Cafe of Last Resort.
Absinth and iodine in a tumbler before her.
She waits beneath a fan that spins slower than the earth
for someone to deliver an exit visa.
A sole violin weeps longingly in the background.
Her extreme beauty works against her;
others’ motives are always suspect.
No one approaches her table…again today,
She knows she cannot leave.
Men with thin mustaches grin and nod at her from the bar,
but she sees no refection in the mirror behind them.
That cannot be good, she reasons.
And of course, she is right.
She has chosen passionate disaster before.
Dithering between self-indulgence and self-denial
is a subtle form of self-abuse.
She will twist and squeeze her wrist until her pearls yellow
and the perspiration above lip turns blue.
Perhaps in the morning she will fly a colorful kite in the meadow.
Slip across the border with gypsies.
Her hair can be tied up; a cotton dress perhaps and barefoot.
No one would recognize her.
Or arise with the early mist to glide through the trees to the sea
to escape on a freighter
and maybe marry a sea captain…or a marine scientist
and raise beautiful children in Bimini or on the outskirts of Rio.
Maybe forget men all together and teach archery to nuns in a Spanish convent.
Anything is possible, she thinks.
She will try again tomorrow.