Bristles of green put cracks in my eggshell heart.
“Do you see it?” you ask, sipping on foam
and heat in midsummer.
I twist blades in my palm and
don’t look up.
“Too bright,” I say.
You swat at the air,
put weight on your elbows.
You’re long, eyes shut towards the sun,
spread out like a praying mantis on its back.
“Mmm,” you say.
Did you see me as I went under?
Fingertips first, forearms, freckles.
My breasts were gone before you
asked if I wanted to get lunch in the city.
I tried to reach you but I was
too tangled in roots and the dark damp of us.
I think you called my name when my
ears were being packed with dirt.
“Mmm.” I said, maybe to myself.
“Maybe I’ll see it tomorrow.”
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Nicole Marie