Withered fields and vineyards, barren pomegranate and fig, gnarled apple; no honey in the hive's crumpled parchment. The days grow longer and hotter. Birds make gunfire noises in the trees. A thousand mussels could live on a bed the size of a stovetop. And so over a billion of them died on an overheated stretch of shore along the Salish sea. I cannot imagine how my own body, torched in its home, would give up its secrets to the air.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.