by Katrin Tschirgi
We died eating glass. Thirsty and bored,
we licked broken shards of sea
foam, yellow ochre, burnt-brown beer
clean out of the waves. Waited till it tumble-dried
and formed doodles in our swollen mouths.
Our tongues split, v-shaped.
We could have talked.
I saved my words unspoken
between two bookends where they aged
like a Merlot. 2008. I uncorked
the memories and tasted shoe-string bikinis,
and the malt vinegar left over from the night
we made calamari. I slivered the squid
into wedding rings, disposed vitals,
and saved its kangaroo pouch of ink.
With it I penned you a letter
in my best cursive and floated it out
onto a hot oil sea. In the reflection overlooking
San Juan and conch, I remembered
your empty oyster eyes
and how we grew old.
Katrin Tschirgi likes strong coffee and good intentions.
