my friend Rick in Washington who i have never met and do not know at all was supposed to send me an email confirming the reality of a 10 pound box of tart red cherries, dried.

we have
very specific preferences in how
we communicate;
give me eyes, give me
pupils. give me
twitching tongue and
give me tidal swell
of chest. no, give
me words and give me
thoughts, give me space
from the cascade of
your chemicals.

have you heard
the boulders roll
unseen down a glacial pale
blue river? like teeth,
like teeth clicking,
in the mouth of that
beautiful human who
you have built a fantasy
life with, the one
you don’t know,
sitting one table over
at some social gathering or
another?

yes give me
fingertips and give me
lies. tell me you don’t want
children and then break off
the frayed ends of your hair
and get pregnant,
only a few months
later. tell me you want
people to show up to you
broken, and then run
in terror from the blood
that rises from the break.

give me pheromones
and give me body
language. give me
a woman who speaks
Chinese as her primary language,
mine, primarily, it is
English. and give me
off-kilter sentences,
on account of that
unaccustomed tongue.

another woman, her
hair shorn short though
not so short as to
run from its curls,
she glides by
on a sailboat in the channel
at my side. the man
at the rudder, he
wears a hood and i cannot see
his hair, he
informs her as to the
origins of boats
tied to the same dock as i,
he talks loudly
to be heard atop
the small diesel engine
propelling the boat,
“you see that
boat there?
it is designed
to look like
a classic
Canadian design
from the 70s”.

she with the short
hair and the unheard
language that floods
my desiccated head,
she coils a rope
on the bow
of the boat,
looking, looking,
looking.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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