Editor's Note





Book Reviews

Contributors' Notes

Mojacar, Spain; May 2004

Jesse Millner

Neolithic rainbow man, the Indalo; citrus blossoms that smell like honeysuckle; the blue rooms of the sea; the dark smudge of Africa on the southern horizon; the Hill of the One-Armed Moor; Lucinda's cave; the dry rio agua; the red poppies amid the daisies; the yellow blooms on prickly cactus; the sleepy afternoon cats; the dogs that follow us everywhere with long dripping tongues; the sparrows on the morning windowsill; the swallows diving for insects at dusk; the screech owl on the fencepost; the goats down in the canyon; the solitary burro in the pasture; the dirt road that leads over the mountain, with a big garbage dump at the summit; the frogs that sing each night; the way Venus comes out first, bright over La Vieja; the dump trucks that carry sand from valley quarries; the crushed striped snake in the middle of the road leading to the unfinished bridge; the paved road that winds down the playa, where yesterday we saw men installing streetlights; the big shopping center at the end of the beach road, three levels of shops, restaurants, and real estate offices; the small grocery store in Mojacar where we buy necessities like chocolate bars and Coca Cola Light; La Fuente at the base of the pueblo with its potted geraniums and white walls; the city bus that runs on its own schedule; the sidewalks that climb toward the sky; the Iglesia de Santa Maria; the white dogs playing in the church courtyard; the sun-burned tourists; the little bar that serves tapas with drinks; the way the locals pronounce gracias "grathias" with that smooth, Almerian diphthong; the Moorish citadel at the summit of the mountain, now a bar; the soccer field at the edge of town, lit up each night; the cross on the hill nearby; the olive orchards; the eucalyptus; the laurel; the narrow roads that crisscross the valleys; the farmers who harvest potatoes from small terraced fields; the potatoes themselves: perfect, tiny, yellow; the lemon I stole from a tree whose limbs lean over a fence into the road; the cold lemon juice I squeezed on the fish as you drank the good Almerian wine; and the way we slept last night, dreaming all things Spanish, until our bodies were heavy with the orchards, light with bird song, until our dreams were no longer human ones.