| |
the sun in galveston.
Glaring back at me, the sun so
white-hot it turns the thick black lenses
of my sunglasses yellow.
This dirty beach, half-ocean sand, half-
dead rats here—(We found them more than a decade ago) —
Half-lost my mind, they might say,
for coming here again
for coming here alone.
I watch a fisher man set three poles
against the sun,
seemingly unaware of where I am walking
behind him
Wondering where all this filthy salt
gets off, sloshing about in this great, big bowl
of imported granite slabbery.
What if I dove in? Would it float me up...
Or swallow me whole like I
pretend life has not done,
is not doing,
playing solitary adventurer when I know
I am just lonely.
The sun and I, we share this. We revel in this consistent inconsistency, this mercurial continuation.
Fated to this white-hot existence,
Glaring bright all day, faking it till we feel it—
Then settling back into the dingy saltwater each night,
Licking up the drops
From the world’s dirty face.
Julia Englund
|
|
User Rating: |
|
9.0
/10
(2 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend