Paradise
/High tide, tide of a moonless
push and pull, of a foamy tug-
of-war growing slowly through
the afternoon. The sharp and salt-
scented waves are glazed like a sheet
of wrinkled cellophane, like endless
bubble wrap popping softly on the shore.
I rake my naked feet through wet consonants
of sand, through washed-up rinds
of seaweed, scattered shards of ash-
white seashells I used to tongue-tie
myself into repeating, repeating,
blurting out these playground games
of memory. Now, I’ve learned to let
the gulf speak for itself, to listen
to the wind slap the rainbowed
and unraveled flaps of umbrellas,
scrape the maze of shirtless bodies,
the perfect rows of hotels and beach
chairs, the hordes of squawking gulls
impersonating vultures, as they hover
for their share of leftover sandwiches,
spilled bags of potato chips, or a sip
from the blue, hand-crushed cans
my father plants around his ice-chest,
that aluminum Stonehenge he quickly
adds to, collects. In paradise, all vision
is panoramic, and as much as I think
I’m walking closer, enlarging the glossy
postcard around him, he is still just another
tourist, a man seated next to a woman,
who in the swollen weekend sun
has become a different version
of my mother, a wife unclasping
the black straps of her one-piece bathing
suit, lying face down, and airing out
her skin the way she allows herself to
every year, the way she doesn’t mind
the salted light crawling on her large
and stretch-marked shoulders, unfolding
her spine like a black and white spread,
while off to the side, with a plastic shovel
in hand, I see myself carving out a contradiction,
building another place to live, a farm
or fortress where I envision winter—
that fabled season—smeared like broken
chalk across acres of hibernating fields,
and where I can frame my family into
a portrait of smiling snowmen, standing
on the porch, watching as I stretch my legs
and arms into the world’s largest angel.
Author's Note: Every summer, my parents would take my sister and I to South Padre Island for a couple of days. The stress of the work, of raising two children, of trying to stay afloat financially in the world, appeared to disappear the moment my father and mother sprawled our cooler, beach towels, and lawn chairs onto the sand. We claimed our spot for the next few hours. We dug our toes into the paradise we’d been craving all year.
Bio: Esteban Rodríguez is the author of eight poetry collections, most recently Lotería (Texas Review Press, 2023), and the essay collection Before the Earth Devours Us (Split/Lip Press, 2021). He lives with his family in south Texas.
