Sarcophagus : In the cul-de-sac

by Kristi Maxwell

he curls up

a flesh drop of dew when viewed

from high enough—

the wind yanks the sky out

of place like a word stressed

a syllable too soon so

marooned far from the island of

his understanding, though debris from my boat

floats by. There he is

waving like a capital letter—my arms loosen

from my body like string and bring my hello out

as highlights are said to eyes

if hair is dark enough

for an iris to interpret as sea

exempting of course night’s involvement

where shadows are lonely for the home

light makes. His tongue reaches in my mouth like California

and we argue shoreline

while sand breeds jellyfish

in tear-ducts he tunnels clean.