Always in discord, they are
summer’s yellow-throated singers,
so deep in distress, I cannot tell
if the voice is mine or theirs
cannot even tell if it is fright
or sorrow, the pained thrum
which gives to a humid night
echoes in the eardrum,
a reverb as haunting as
an owl or one’s racing heart,
which lingers when they sleep
during the panting heat of day
while the moon seeps silent
under the bright horizon
what remains is close to sweat
and skin, a dizzy reminder
of hidden pasts, sounds
of the South and my fears.
San Juan Island
We decide to follow the people
with the big-ass cameras and boots.
They at least look prepared.
Something, we are not.
We scurry down a rocky ledge.
Me, in jelly shoes. You, in flip-flops.
I carry the disappointment
from yesterday’s guaranteed sighting tour.
You pocket your hopeful adventure
which might cause us to sleep under the stars.
After a week, I’ve given up on the whales.
I’m not optimistic much these days—
A broken body with dreams that fell
off this high cliff we are hiking,
so, I’ve settled for seeing seagulls
and summer’s speckled fawn.
Though, we nervously wait, check our phones
to make sure we can return the “go-car” on time,
we watch the tiny boats below circle,
as the apricot sun glistens over the water,
and I hear a breath, so deep and so expansive,
that somehow it is enough today,
to fill the gap of it all.
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