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ISSUE:  Summer 2017


I count gulls until they spasm
into numbers, until I grasp
a number never uttered. I ration
dignity like crackers to last

when my own words pan
dust into the mouth of a little gull.
I am a cracker to the plan.
Little gulls are black and full.

Little girls are running around
in pink two-pieces. I call for cover,
an unspecific temp job, brown
as the wanting of erasure.

On the last day of work,
my boss said being black
is a box for checking. I smirked
and danced my hips inside the square.

Little gulls feed me not.
I like beaches, and I like counting
until I reach a number rotten
with plans. I’m just lounging

on a beach chair waiting
for the girls’ laughter as the gulls hang
like check marks. Boxing black slang.
My noise so liberating
it asks to be no one.




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Julia's picture
Julia · 1 year ago

I love this. The imagery, the sound of the language!

Anonymous's picture
Anonymous · 1 year ago

Nice piece!


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