The Sun

Passing into Portuguese
Mozambique, over the
crest of the Swazi
mountains and descending
into tall palms, thatch
roofs lining the black
river roads, and bright
fabric blowing from the
back door of rusted,
packed pick-ups.

You were silent behind the wheel
or maybe you were singing;
Either way, the sun
came flickering down
through thick fronds,
throwing itself speckled
onto your browned skin, sweaty
and windblown. I wanted
to touch you, just lightly
brush your arm, or rest
my hand on your thigh,
as though we were lovers,
just to say, I want you,
and my hands will hold you
more concretely
than the sun.