Born of the misty isles, the myth goes

I'm driving down the one singing I'm a loser

my fiat takes the ragged cliff to heart.

Pacifica, last home of the fair folk, living in the trailer court

with the Mayans, and the Egyptians.

Dana leads me to the pier

she sees the fractured light riding the white horses,

she says the word, rainbow.

We chased them, another Dana girl and I, I so young that

I thought lucky the leprechaun, from the cereal, would be there

or Ireland.

She has a Bridget face although she's Carmen,

can you be a Latina mick?

In her Dublin sweater, she likes the smell of fish

but won't eat them, vise versa, I say.

She says seagulls are my favorite bird.

Pushy pidgins, I say.

Leaning on each other, and the worn wood rail.

We watch for the spectral jockeys

leaning far to get splashed, the same salt as

Ireland, the same salt

as Baja