the lovers prefer Jamaica, they say
how the bus whisks them from plane
to pool bar cloistered behind gates & guards
not that they’ve been to Puerto Plata
or Isla Mujeres & maybe if they
knew Ixchel, the grandmother goddess
tutelary to midwives & medicine
night rainbow with the upturned jars
they’d choose the island of the ladies
over Jamrock, yet even then their love
of the land of woods & springs has only
the vaguest to do with gold & pirates
& then only if poured over ice
& blended with sour lime & sweet berries