Woman on holiday

The plane lands heavy,
and the heat lifts its skirts.
She arrives peeled down
to sweat and skin,

a tourist again,
this time with no husband,
only the shadow of one
folded in her carry-on.

The sea licks its long blue tongue
over the sand’s white thighs.
She watches from a plastic chair,
her feet freckled with salt.

At night, the island is soft with neon.
Rum slips its hand under her dress.
In the bar, a man with an English accent
buys her something sweet.

Later, in a room smelling of hibiscus,
she lets him unzip the day.
Moths batter the lamp. The fan hums.
His mouth travels the map of her,

searching for the old country.
She gives him all the vowels of her body—
the long ones, the soft ones—
though none of them mean home.

Morning comes with its sun-hard truths.
She walks the narrow streets alone,
fingers sticky with memory,
already a postcard fading.