We want to spinour towels about us,but stand in the damp—a tintinnabulation of ankle braceletsshifting, delicately rocking from one hemisphere to the other;our bikini-clad hips are two red equators.The sun peeks through banana fronds,peeks through two copper keyholes of legs and coral pubic bone,peeks through the green-soaked signatureof an island naming and renaming itselfin the slow, dark tickingof tamarind pods, "Waitukubuli" "Waitukubuli"—in the pulsing flash of a cutlass.Black tail switching side to side.To be hushed. To be locked in the shutter'sstuttering cough— Are we a catch?Skin dripping with light. Still.Sit still for the camera.Sweet dregs in a drum? Under galvanized awningsof centuries' shadow of stacked wooden stalls,Women sit still— Hands deep in the knowledge of howto beat coarse cotton clean against the ragged rocks,how to wring provisions from volcanic ash.Cassava! Dasheen! Edoe! Yam! We walk.The cow, now behind us,occluded by a coconut palm:her tamarind eyes; her crown of horns—disappearing in a keyhole of green fire.