the bay

contemplate my toes,

nails painted moonbeam black (are beams black?)

and the tops of my feet,

sunburned, smeared

with aloe grease,

and bits of sand,

grainy against raw skin.
laughter floats up,

answering voice is low,

somber, in drink

soured reek of seaweed,  

cloying in this heat

languishes in the twilight

and my damp,

salt soaked hair

sticks to the side

of my flushed cheeks
 

idly, i sip  

from a plastic

dixie cup

and

swish sweet white wine

through my teeth 

air conditioner,

rusted red, time- worn

blows, stale and chilly

hum muffled

by a clouded,

sliding glass door

weak strains

from the clock radio

escape

Otis Redding sighs

in my ear

 

        I’ve been……. loooving you,

            for soo looong now

 

shamelessly bleeds

into the lull of the surf,

briny against the craggy,

jagged shore
 

muted mourning

of the sea gulls

wrenches me

from the inside out
devastatingly beautiful

in its gritty allure

 

 

                                                                                   -LS-

 

 

 

In the summer, I take Caden to the gulf. Galveston Bay. Usually, it’s just the two of us. It’s one of my favorite places to go. I do realize it’s the redheaded stepchild of the beaches, but there’s something so enchanting , so alluring about its grit. The mess of seaweed, twisted, bunched on the beach. The ramshackle, salted wooden houses, wasting away- their ratty, threadbare curtains, a placid, slight movement in the dark windows. There are so many stories to be found, it seems, down each crumbling, broken road,  and each will eventually lead you down to the coarse, rocky beach. We stay at the Commodore. It’s old. Cheap. Brick walls. Faintly stained curtains. Sliding glass doors that don’t latch all the way, so a layer of salt coats the mirrors. I adore that hotel, because every room faces the ocean, and every room has a story.  At night, after little dude falls asleep, buried, underneath sheer sheets, sweaty hands clutched around his worn, cotton stuffed tiger, I step out on the balcony, plant my ass down in the plastic lawn chair, and just breathe.  And think.

 

pray about it

 

lets talk about the weather

The weather is bipolar,  as of late. I’ll drift off, in shorts and a wisp of a tank top, my book, cast aside, sometimes dropping onto my chest, sometimes onto the worn, wooden floor,  the ceiling fan lazily rousing  the humid air, clammy against my warm skin, hair still damp from the shower.  Yet, I’ll wake with goose bumps on my pale, freckled legs, tangled in the sheets, as I apparently tried to pull them tightly around in sleep, against the chill of the early hours.

I wake up at about 3,  every morning. I don’t know why. It’s automatic. My house is old and timeworn; I live in the Texas flat lands, where the winds constantly offend. The sinewy bushes against my windows scrape, back and forth, nails on a chalkboard.  My wind chimes, outside, which sound so charming in the milky light of day, are haunting. I can hear my German shepherd, Sadie Mae, moving around the house, restless. My little one, snoring softy, next to me, sometimes incoherent words, sighs, escaping his dream world, slipping through his sweet lips.

I’ll lay there, in the dark, with my thoughts. Sometimes, I’ll scroll through instagram, though most of my ig friends are on my time, and usually asleep.  But mostly, I just think. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen back asleep until my alarm pulls me back into the world of the living, muted pink hues spreading up the walls, a blush, pushing the shadows away.

In a few months, I’ll be falling asleep in a different bed, in a different city, with different lights casting different shadows around my room. I wonder if I’ll still wake at 3 am.

I’ve some new stuff to put on here, but I have to take some pictures to go with, first. Stay tuned.

watching her melt

-for haley-

 

he settles in beside her

tucks a wisp of her hair

behind her torn ear

shredded by his prose

splintered letters, words,  pieces

coalesce with wax and blood 

 

d

r

i

p 

 

down sallow, freckled cheeks 

he turns her upside down

and holds her, until her face is aflame

observes the wax and blood gather

into a delicate,

heart-shaped mold 

hands, stuffed in his pocket,

he strokes his interminable

supply of matches,

lights the wick

and lets it burn down 

to the quick

again