St. Augustine, July

The romance novel in the thrift store that falls open naturally, like a ripe piece of fruit, to the juiciest sex scene. The secondhand wicker, the rattan, the hibiscus, the pelicans, the pink, the glass lamps filled with whelks. The cheeky gulls, those beggars. The insistent breeze from downshore that smooths my white sand footprint to a rippled crater within two minutes. The startling moment when the wind briefly dies. The ice slumping, shrinking in the styrofoam. The cumulonimbus that mound thickly in the southeast sky at the same hour everyday. The waves, mulling it greenly over and over and over, endlessly. The light of six o’clock that turns my forearms to galaxies, of the kind only seen far outside of town in the deep wintertime.

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We Met at the Mini-Storage Facility

A chance meeting in the hall. You were a five-by-eight:
dense, climate-controlled. I was a bloated ten-by-fifteen,
and fine in a cell outside, with its temperature extremes.
My hoard had more volume. Yours, more weight.

You showed me your trove of googly eyes, lapel pins,
photos you’d taken of dirty tarps on construction sites.
Delighted, proud, I lifted from my own first boxes lights
of all kinds: lamps and strands and sconces, bins

of silk and paper shades. Then, reaching down, I found
a fifth of vodka my last love hid, not unearthed till now.
Next, the star-spangled sequined blouse I’d never allowed
myself to toss, although he hit me in it once: crumpled mound

of sparkle, sweat, and blood. Your smile was faint and kind. Sadly,
you slid out a large box marked in all caps, FUCKING NEGATIVES.
We kept some boxes sealed – others, we were brave enough to give
away. Repacked the rest in more condensed, neat stacks. Gladly

rolled shut the metal doors, clicked the locks in place. Another day
we’ll cull some more: risk what we can let go, and what must stay.

That Damned Spot

It has become clear that I learned only from all the best
mistakes I made, more than I did from what went right.
The time I failed to defend my friend, that crucial night
I slammed down a wineglass full of red in my clenched fist,
shattering it to bits. These wrongs put me on “the right
road to wholeness,” as Jung would say, which means a route
paved “with fateful detours and wrong turnings,” and too the mute
chagrin of afterwards, when reflection comes, the dark night
of the soul. I have expanded through what in me was mean
and small, from a base spite at times when my ire burned,
sputtering and greasy – when, rather than be generous, I spurned
the chance to rise above, broaden, keep my conscience clean.
That damned spot is all that keeps me moored to earth. I lean close:
my breath fans the sooty smudge of that which shames me most.

Men Hurry to Shore for Good Reason

The sea swallows whole
all that boasts of heft and mass,
slows the arc of a brute fist
till it becomes the leisurely
sweep of a ballerina’s arm –

or adds force to the weak,
flinging a stray oak sprig
hard enough to redden a cheek.

To stay requires that one conform
to the fluid cage of the whale,
submit to ebb and flow, gale and lee

that buffet and shelter the brig
by turns. Some do. Most demur,
preferring the sound and solid shore.

The Unattended Beer

the lights
the beat
the heat
the heels

the point
when I hit
the wood

the world
stopped
went dark

woke later
with puke
on my boots

vague sense
I’d been
surrounded
gripped

shameful inkling
I’d screamed
and hit

at the friend
who took
care of me

The Wasps’ Nest

At the top corner of the bedroom window
in the hollow between regular and storm panes
wasps have built a nest. I noticed last week.

Their place measures, already, dozens of papery cells
across. Once in a while I walk by and flick the glass.
Their legs and wings quiver. Then they scatter angrily.

I read of Vespula vulgaris that they’re less aggressive
than their red cousins – yet now I have these paper-makers
trained: when they see my poised finger approach,

they fly and fly at the invisible border that divides us.
I stand and watch them spread, stab past the glass towards
my face behind it: livid, futile. From outside I torment them

for I have no way to kill them without myself being stung –
that is, until the winter does it for me. December alone
will find these flimsy chambers bereft of all their toilers.

Things

Beware of people who prefer you when you’re low.

Everyone is more complex than they appear.

Wrest your worth from others’ courtrooms. Be excused from such suits.

The Irish know best how to say goodbye.

Glow your own way.