noodle-doodler

You will know when. The taste of your name is unmuddied by shame, slips from your tongue without hitch. And you relish it. You will know when. Letters, looping over-large cursive on the weak washed blue of composition book lines are dragged into the light, soft faces smoothed, read. And they make you smile. There will be no moment of dissonance between body and its study. Maxine, is that you? (When it is, you will know; you will know when it is.) You will know when. Questions are   in future-tense because you trust the Type A fifth-grader with her composition book, the in-between girl with the scarred forehead, their sister who

Where the sky kisses the sea: that is the coast. And the waves here turn with special passion, restless, wind-tossed: sheets of their cosmic lovers thrown askew, cosmic crowns askew in throes of chaotic love. The sand erodes with special vigor, urgently shed layers between two bodies hell-bent on closeness. Always, always closeness reaching, seeking, crashing. Creatures of the coast are captives of capricious masters, but feather and flower fear not waves nor storm. For they are forged where the sky kisses the sea, and all that lovely tooth and nail.