by Lori Anne Gravley

Maputo, Mozambique

The horizon line so far out they say
you can’t see where sky meets

ocean, Indian, this one, but it’s there
just left of my vision, beyond my wine glass.

Sky the same shade as sea, but
I see difference between the two,

between devil and deep blue
or in this case, almost black reflection

of darkening sky. Is it a terrible omen
reflecting in some magnificent mirror

or is it just the rainy season, come early,
though too late for this year’s crops,

and maybe too strong and too long to help anyone
but farmers half a world away

who suck shared water the way I suck
the last colonial wine from this globed glass

and set it aside?