The Maltese Englishman

My Englishman looks out onto the Maltese sea
And I see him breathe

His high shoulders calm under starched jacket
Dripping with shiny, foreign things

With meanings you could stretch like hot sugar
Until you’re sure he could have been something

His brow an ageless, sun-soaked groove
His lips still and set with practiced assurance

The guns go off

I squint to see where the metal goes
With no splash to condone an existence

No evidence but the lazy smoke
Circling like vapid possibilities around his head

And although my Englishman could look up for me
His heart is in the sparkling sea

I lean over and make mirrors of my eyes
Watching for what hope he has out there

I turn and wait
He only breathes