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| This woman is an island, I said, sea washing me. Over my dried corn grass, and over my tree. This woman is an atoll, I am standing out to sea. Delight, the sea pouring from your mouth at me. Words that might drown me! Vivacious, salacious, delectable, words that will swamp me. Bring me back to sea. Where this woman is a pillar. Ruins, from a while ago, on an island out to sea. Chalk and sandstone, broad and sunny. Small daisies tall and scrappy, thistles in the warmest of cracks. Snugly smiling out to sea. Back on my island, back on my beloved island! I hug my walls to myself in my flat stone palms. I smile the curve of my coastline with my sandlicked lips. I sing my birdsong out of a sharp beaked throat. Several suns pass by over my head. The rest of them are reflections, sunflare, aurora. The land is in sight, I have spent all year swimming to it and all year I have gotten somewhere that is almost nowhere at all. |
| Old Flames Burn |
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| by Chloe Meakin |