~MARIE C. JONES~

CAPE COD

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Shrieking eddies of birds tear the seminal sky.
At lunch, a gull snatched my bread, drew blood
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 our backs—

headstrong July, air conditioner on vacation, bright
street lights; sweat told its beads down your nakedness.
Humming birds and a cardinal people our tomato

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, unsheltered.

I take my shoes off.  The sky is red west, red
and black, gone.  Shells break underfoot;
we trail the lace hem of the sea into a darker place.
 
 

© by Marie C. Jones