Not the Storm
1 Minute Read Time
Not the storm, but moments before: I breathed
into your shoulder, the sore part of your arm.
At the shore, you read me the essay you wrote,
the one about me. In it, we fuck, but only I come.
Any edits, you asked? Only one. We sat in abandoned
tires, thinking. The moon lip-synched across the sky.
Not the storm, but the dread of awakening, mouthless,
the backs of our hands touching, your eyes like
commas for a poem I didn’t write, one in which
the princes kiss and the corpses rise, and we drink
wine and limeade by the pool, waiting for rain.
I thought you were dead, embalmed in a coffin
of promises. Not the storm, but moments before:
You lost your wallet at sea. The children slept
in their fists, their births rising up to greet them.
The dead stammered in their metal shirts. I wanted
the catastrophe to worsen. A horse made a start in the dark.
Read more from Issue 20.2.
