Paradise, That Other Place Residing Here

by MEREDITH STRICKER

as octopus dries on wire at the Paradise Taverna
an old woman gestures for us to come sit under 

her shaded grape arbor but we keep walking 
past her and past soldiers in front of the disco 

toward the perimeter of an old mine field
strung with barbed wire and red triangles 

where orange and yellow canisters rust in the dirt 
like toy trains––the heat and dust bind us 

in a corolla of light that sees us
entire and without flaw