ideas string out
into islands
and pepper our understandings
of ‘ocean’:
and you,
you flail your arms
in solicitation of laughter–
(it can’t be helped)
so what if at the end of
the working day
it’s a deathly hunger
that ripples the pit
of our bellies?
if time does
go round and round
her words are an endlessly repeating
query–
i cry, but not for lack of answer
or rather a decent shot at one,
more like from the pain
you might associate
with a slow
shattering.
i bite the inside of my cheek
and watch the seamlessness of it–
warm blood fills my mouth
and stains my teeth.
an open wound grins back at me:
the setting sun,
water lapping the last of the land,
and the palm’s fronds, delicate
in their sway
make a whispering sound
as if to say–
so tell me what it is
you plan
to do.
C A R Y L U N A 
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