ISSUE: Spring 2021
Swifts do not guard their time; they do not linger. When they come
back from Africa, we are happy. I was told to go back to Africa. The sea,
that stupid slate wedge, sparks with such beauty. I feel lonely. A car goes past,
blasting I get so lonely lonely lonely lonely yeah, and my fingers tap. Today, the
applause gets confused with raindrops. The sun pulls soft tendrils of copper
from the creamy stone. We shut ourselves up
and trust the sea to stay put. I can’t go back to anywhere. I have phantom
kicks in my belly. I am nursing, but it feels like I am ghosting. The sea
waits, good slab of stone.
Clapter clapter siren anthem—we resist, growing quiet as the neighbors swoop
to their windows. Their balconies cheer. We shove thyme down into our silent soil.
We have lived for too long in this beautiful city. The island rises in the distance and the
castle leans over the city beach. What a brat I’ve been, not taking all this in on the daily.
I should visit bliss
more often often often—I have lived too long in you.
