Some stories
we only want to tell
the first part. and I
don't even want to
tell you this.
I want to leave it at the opening
I want to let it end
with sun filtering
through evergreens and a seat
made of beach grass
I want to know which door
to open
which to close.
It's going to rain tomorrow and
I shut the window.
It's summer and
there is no smell of
catastrophe, there are no
broken promises and wind only
brushes hair and fills sails.
Whatever it is,
it isn't a hurricane. It
isn't a tornado whipped up
over the Kansas flats
It was a breeze, it was only ever
a breeze.
It's summer and the wind is soft.
It's summer and the beach
is full of sun and people.
It's summer and the wind
is only a feather not a sword.
We should end the story here
in the sun and the cool wind.
We should end this story
in the summer.
It's going to rain tomorrow and I
cross the hall
close the window in the bathroom.
I make sure to latch it
Later, on the beach,
the wind is cold and the sun
is a fractal
that ends in the waves.
I look down at sand and
crushed shells, halves
of crabs and bits of sand dollars.
Behind me
a child yells
"Come look we found
a whole carcass."
His mother runs towards him,
yelling.
It was summer and the body
of the sea lion
blended blindly
into the shadows and heaps
of waterlogged
driftwood.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
No body can escape. Thanks