“Expatriate’s Pantoum.” A Poem by Maria Nazos

Today, we’ll wake again and drink pineapple juice
spiked with Bacardi, then curl up in a hammock.
We’ll do another line, then you’ll play me more Bruce,
then we’ll cash another unemployment check.

We’ll spike our drinks with Bacardi, curl up in a
hammock. Though it’s not cool to collect benefits from
overseas, still, you’ll cash my last unemployment check,
then we’ll email our worried lovers back home an apology.

Though it’s not cool to collect benefits from
overseas, you say, Baby, let’s die tan, but first, let’s
live wet,
so, we’ll email our worried lovers back home our apologies:
today, we’re drunk, again, on rum and sober with regret.

You say, Baby, let’s die tan. But first, live wet.
Check out that weird Swiss guy—he lives next door in a tent—
though today I’m drunk, again, on rum, but sober with regret,
we’ll hide from the landlord and dodge this month’s rent.

Let’s watch that weird Swiss guy; he lives in a tent.
That dude next door, he looks like Gary Busey,
then we’ll hide from the landlord and dodge the rent.
I say I should leave. You are home, you say, you first-world hussy.

That dude next door—let’s call him Gary
Busey— now he’s made a fire, and he’s frantically dancing.
I say I should leave, but you call me a hussy,
just as Busey throws machetes into the trunks of palm trees.

Now that guy’s made a fire, he’s dancing frantically.
And here comes the local boy who throws rocks and
fits. Busey throws machetes into the trunks of palm
trees, then swings the kid dangerously close to the
firepit.

And that local boy, he’s throwing rocks and fits—
but he giggles, squirms away, throws a stick in the
flames, then Busey swings the kid dangerously close to the pit,
so I coax him back with chocolate and tropical yams,

but he giggles and squirms off, throws a stick in the flames.
Let’s walk, fast down the beach, quick, grab the
kid’s hand.
I’ll coax him back with chocolate and tropical yams,
though he’s unhinged, too, and needs a reprimand.

Let’s walk fast down the beach. Quick, grab the kid’s
hand. Now Busey’s holding a club, not a machete.
And though I think he’s unhinged, too, and needs a reprimand,
maybe not—because he’s headed right toward me.

Since now he’s holding a club, not his usual
machete,
I’m running, running down the beach.
Or maybe not: because he’s headed right toward me—
but I’m out of sight and away from that madman’s reach.

And I’m running, running, again down the beach.
Though I came here for love, though I thought I’d found peace,
although I’m finally far away from one madman’s reach,
wherever I go, your scent is always trapped in my sheets.

So, I return to the hut. Though I know it’s time to go
home, we’ll do another line; then you’ll play me some
Bruce.
You say there’s no reason for a lost girl to travel alone:
so tomorrow we’ll wake again and drink pineapple juice.

__________________________________