Read time: 1 min
Punting a mullet skiff through a half-submerged forest.
Laughing cypress trees obscure the stars.
“Poke your own way out the way a real man would.”
A flare erupts where the tide’s its lowest.
A will-o’-the-wisp who smells like cigars
drips an ember clew down the pathway out the wood.
Her face when she faces me conforms to a mirror,
an inflamed vision more natural than its incarnate original.
She heats the forest like a kiln to clarify a kunzite’s metal,
burning out the needly nerves that keep my throat so sore,
the hairy hand that grabs the club because the stomach roars.
Years of earwax melts and frees the songs the songbirds call.
“Girl, we know you know the notes; now let’s hear your vocals.”
Warbling wilts the cypress limbs; new vibrations guide the oar.
Diving in where the headwaters are.
Currents cool and cleanse the scars.
Flowing locks by waves caressed,
drinking in this newfound lightness,
swimming through the stars.
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