Shrieking eddies of birds tear the
At lunch, a gull snatched my bread,
between index and thumb. You
licked it off.
I think of tonight, how mirrors will
open us, turn
our skins inside out. Home
in Texas, we did not love
inch-long roaches scurrying across
headstrong July, air conditioner
on vacation, bright
street lights; sweat told its beads
down your nakedness.
Humming birds and a cardinal people
backyard—unlike this tidal scum,
they expect us back.
The season has no corners, or too
many. We roam
the white sand while the sun sets,
I take my shoes off. The sky
is red west, red
and black, gone. Shells break
we trail the lace hem of the sea
into a darker place.
© by Marie C. Jones