Dear Water Ox,
it seemed that everywhere
on the long road by the empty golf course
on the beach so bright that colors faded to black around the edges
so perfect that the whole world seemed to be used up in one place
at night where darkness is a static that sometimes looks green
with the moon and the grasshoppers singing through the trees
it seemed that everywhere were the bees
they grazed my chest when I was naked on the side of the road
they told the grasses where to kiss me
taught them how I yearned to be touched
and even when they became spiteful
as bees are wont to do
I needed only ask them to please go away
and away they flew
it seemed that everywhere were the osprey
their telephone pole-top villas like great ships
their hungry songs that caught me off guard like the unnamed roads
or the warmth of the water in the chill autumn air
or the pale, soft mouths of the conch
that stretched themselves in timid desperation toward my hands
in search of solid land
the last thing, crossing the water again in the sun
how lightness and darkness seemed to be everywhere
touch everything
ignite the smallest wavelet and blister my Romanian skin into a late-September tan
how for the briefest moment
I wished you could have been there with me
lying naked and goose-pimpled with the bees and the birds in the sand
—Fire Rabbit
This article appears in February 2014.
