In the courtyard of the stone cottage 
with its great door and moss-etched
walls, on the Spanish isle of Ibiza,
the three of us—you, Angelina, barely 8; 
you, Drisana, a sad-eyed 11; and me, 
your thirty-something single mom 
with henna-dyed-hair. The duffle bags 
are piled up, full of dust and holes. 
We dragged them through the streets 
of London, in and out of airports, 
up and down ferry ramps, over gravel 
to our cobblestone casita. It’s our first 
morning—breakfast outside 
on overturned buckets, upside-down 
crate for a table, chickens pecking around 
our toes. You’ve just bounced back from 
the corner store where you’d gone for butter 
and milk. You speak Spanish now, you say. 
You told everyone, Aloha, and they smiled. 
And you’ve figured out the money—how much 
peaches cost and the layered pastries you will 
convince me to send you back for later. But 
right now the sunlight is doing what it loves 
best—resting on your uncombed hair. 
We’re laughing together, rocking on our buckets 
under the olive trees, and the birds are laughing along. 
Nothing dares come between us—the jets overhead 
turn off their engines, the breezes turn back before 
they reach us. The surf holds its pose—a curl
of blue-green glass. And the clattering 
clockworks of our hearts fall inexplicably still.