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Coast: July1 min read

21 March, 2012 0 comment

By Nancy Kang
Published in 16.4

 

Coast: July

 

I press a finger                                                                           at the fading pulse
of your indifference                                                                 a stalk entwined with veined tendrils,
the swell of globed thoughts                                                                     pungent as crushed garlic

little bellies, each of those cloves,
a green toe nudging there,                                                                         a tiny tail embryonic,
blister-urgent moisture in                                                    a nest of browned roots
as white as the top of a green onion                                                       or the roots of your hair

These fire-flowers that alight the sky each year, the
communion girls laughing                                                   the sprinkler jets with
the barking yellow dog that ruts                                       the hard spray of water
smiles like a dying fish                                                           flushed pink, fading grey.

I never stopped looking
for the old places that skittered across those deep trenches and brown arms
like water-striders                                                                   on a stream in sunshine somewhere
their pinprick legs suturing                                                 memory’s open mouth
but leaving no scars                                                                                      that dissolve in a week or two.

 

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