June 10, 2016 § Leave a comment

Mid-ocean, eroticism capsizes the ship. The woman had spun, a quick and off-guard deconstruction of air, rations all bound up inside it. But air is irrational. Mid-evening, she’d grown blades along her bones. They strained and bucked against her skin, a threshold of air bubbles. Between. The night gives her up. She hears the child wailing as it submits a border of its own footprints. Do you have a point of view?, air asks the child. Its head shakes out a no. But this gesture no longer means no. It doesn’t mean irony, either. Footprints are pictographs left up for air to decipher. Footprints signal where the bones will be. For instance: whenever the child doesn’t understand, its palms angle skyward. It’s getting late; it’s become. Moon rapid, then still. The woman retrieves the pastries from the basket. She considers them with her tongue, stretching the sweets into three syllables apiece, before rejecting them. Waves. Back to the ocean. This gesture no longer means hello or watch me glide down a cinched-waist road, crowned and bejeweled. Let’s get back to the ocean. Transfusion or injection? Flat upon the surface, eroticism mutes the water into wet, explosive air. The woman had written about her body, six sharp metal conjunctions fused together when the streets came into view, rusting where remnants of forest meet the sea. Fluent night pours down her throat in the form of her own warm shawl. On land night dilates like a body. Silhouette bulky with scrap metal. On land the birds crash down, strange confessions on the ground.


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