GOOD EATING

Outside the portacabin the prostitutes sit around; once the men have finished with them and the girls have made enough money for the day they just stick around, some on the shaded stoop, some on the oil cans that wash up here, their slick skin glimmering in the sun, their exposed legs smelling of sex.

Men come and go from this place. Sometimes is it said they just disappear. The ocean is a dark land and those who want to hide something can count on her as an ally. Up above us, high on the bank, the village children are out in the playground, their happiness drowned out by the scalded shrieks of seagulls hovering over the little fishing boats, waiting like the rest of us for a morsel to be thrown. Lately I miss my home. The sounds I crave are those of a calm breeze caressing the vines; the leaves of the olive groves, of my mother’s voice calling me, my father and my brothers to the house to eat; sounds of peace. I long to go back to my father’s farm, to my mother’s house, but everybody