ars fuhgeddica

J.C. Rodriguez

the joke is that I see the moon; its light

reflected off all the dew on a single leaf;

each drop arousing everything

in me. the truth is that I prefer the beach.

I’m tired of thinking about the stars

and cement and the foliage and all

the moisture each contains.

the truth is I love the shore. each grain

of sand is something that should

have killed me since I turned fourteen —

an empire of rock grazing the skin,

becoming the ocean’s foam. I ate

a meatball sub while I watched the water

take back everything it assumed was owed.


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