this is fresh.
like the last word
someone said
or you losing to find
old photographs
of you unsure of
yourself in blue hoodie
set to the mountains
at sunset like you couldn’t
imagine not being there.
it was such a casual stance
to permanence you carried.
the last time you look at a place.
the space between states,
the plane ride to your
brother’s coma
this is fresh.

this is the last time you’ve ever
seen or heard from someone.
my intrepid cool affect
pushing edges further back;
my rehearsed gait.
I watched waves take things away
as a small child.
the sky was black and cut with
lightning, swollen
with compulsion.
a tropical storm touched the
ocean and on instinct,
it swallowed itself.
my aunt screamed,
came to grab me as I touched the
shore with my hands and
carried us both up to the house.
the whole way up,
i cried about a flip flop
drifting in the current,
begging her to go back.
you can’t tell anything
about a statue
except it’s resting form:

but if you ever saw the contents of
my purse: the twisted straws,
the clutter, lists of
things to get or hold,
you would see
that peevish child
taunting the ocean’s
grip and dashing,
longing for her
endless swaddle,
invincible in
execution only if
carried everywhere. 

“the bay”

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