Sestina in Spain

Poem by Ana Stevenson

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A freshly picked peach and a cardboard cup of coffee, I spend
in ephemeral footprints on the shore of the Balearic sea. I see
in the teal Spanish waves, wading waist- high, wasted time.
The past is present here in salt spit freckles on my face
that’s lately seen the sky, escaped land-locked love
at the cost of grief and tears and every dollar

I had left. The American dollar values the same as Euros spent
on cigarettes or peaches or what have you. Here faces
look like mine. The vacationing Italians see
me and call out Nuota! But I don’t have time
to explain that I don’t speak their language. I love
to watch them though, as I walk, collecting sand dollars.