*Poetry — August 16, 2022
Coastlines
I. La Pointe
an outcropping of rock
at the end of the world
where objects unlatched
from their explanations—
orange aureoles divorcing
from lampposts
the offshore blinking
of a barge drifting from port—
if I had then touched you
even your earlobe
& there felt the end
could be a kind thing
(the day slipping like a species
into forecast oblivion)
& while you white-
knuckled along the highway
I realized we’d left
our plastic cups and utensils
by the sea—
I couldn’t forget it
not even when your face
lapsed into ecstasy—
the sudden
detritus of private life
the litter
II. Tahlequah
the orca that mourned her calf
for 1,000 miles
is pregnant again
has she forgotten
is there still a small
stain on the slate of her brain
CNN streamed it—
J-35’s tour of grief
I too watched her nudge the body
forward & thought:
longing’s a handicap
a cold fin in your mouth
a whistled warning
against the laws of gravity
III. Cape Cod
the whine of marsh wind
Glenn Gould on vinyl
Glenn’s unquiet humming
you holding my hand—
One day I’ll take you to
La Pointe, you said
& Glenn’s chair squeaked
& Glenn misplaced his body
in devotion’s dark room
& pale birds & grasses
cut through the knife
of the marsh wind—
later you picked up the guitar
& sang the years
you lived near La Pointe—
wading through school
avoiding your father like
a piece of furniture at night—
& when you began whistling
a keen ache broke through me:
months past the end I still can’t
find the splinter’s entry
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.
at the end of the world
where objects unlatched
from their explanations—
orange aureoles divorcing
from lampposts
the offshore blinking
of a barge drifting from port—
if I had then touched you
even your earlobe
& there felt the end
could be a kind thing
(the day slipping like a species
into forecast oblivion)
& while you white-
knuckled along the highway
I realized we’d left
our plastic cups and utensils
by the sea—
I couldn’t forget it
not even when your face
lapsed into ecstasy—
the sudden
detritus of private life
the litter
the orca that mourned her calf
II. Tahlequah
the orca that mourned her calf
for 1,000 miles
is pregnant again
has she forgotten
is there still a small
stain on the slate of her brain
CNN streamed it—
J-35’s tour of grief
I too watched her nudge the body
forward & thought:
longing’s a handicap
a cold fin in your mouth
a whistled warning
against the laws of gravity
III. Cape Cod
the whine of marsh wind
Glenn Gould on vinyl
Glenn’s unquiet humming
you holding my hand—
One day I’ll take you to
La Pointe, you said
& Glenn’s chair squeaked
& Glenn misplaced his body
in devotion’s dark room
& pale birds & grasses
cut through the knife
of the marsh wind—
later you picked up the guitar
& sang the years
you lived near La Pointe—
wading through school
avoiding your father like
a piece of furniture at night—
& when you began whistling
a keen ache broke through me:
months past the end I still can’t
find the splinter’s entry
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.
is pregnant again
has she forgotten
is there still a small
stain on the slate of her brain
CNN streamed it—
J-35’s tour of grief
I too watched her nudge the body
forward & thought:
longing’s a handicap
a cold fin in your mouth
a whistled warning
against the laws of gravity
the whine of marsh wind
III. Cape Cod
the whine of marsh wind
Glenn Gould on vinyl
Glenn’s unquiet humming
you holding my hand—
One day I’ll take you to
La Pointe, you said
& Glenn’s chair squeaked
& Glenn misplaced his body
in devotion’s dark room
& pale birds & grasses
cut through the knife
of the marsh wind—
later you picked up the guitar
& sang the years
you lived near La Pointe—
wading through school
avoiding your father like
a piece of furniture at night—
& when you began whistling
a keen ache broke through me:
months past the end I still can’t
find the splinter’s entry
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.
Glenn’s unquiet humming
you holding my hand—
One day I’ll take you to
La Pointe, you said
& Glenn’s chair squeaked
& Glenn misplaced his body
in devotion’s dark room
& pale birds & grasses
cut through the knife
of the marsh wind—
later you picked up the guitar
& sang the years
you lived near La Pointe—
wading through school
avoiding your father like
a piece of furniture at night—
& when you began whistling
a keen ache broke through me:
months past the end I still can’t
find the splinter’s entry
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.