we were made of wood

of all the things i leave behind, this always makes me cry the most

Your nickname for me was carved into the side of the pier. Obviously, I thought of us.
I've written about this name before. I've written about us. I can never seem to figure out how to stop doing it.

I sat on the floor of the pier. I read a book,
I watched the ducks, I held fast to the environment
and I wanted to carve something, too.

Next to me, I saw the letters KKK carved as big as they could get.
I couldn't tell if those were the letters they meant to carve
or if it had been worn into something new over time.

The ducks starve.
Once they ate french fries from my hand;
they wouldn't eat the chicken.
They beg, they are not as afraid of us as they should be.

It has reached one pm now,
the wind is blowing the pages.
I do not think anyone has noticed me
sitting at the end of the pier.
I am covered in pollen.
I am a green hood.
I want to cross every letter off this pier
and I want to hide in the water.

But no one would object,
so I write instead, I swallow what I cannot taste and I
leave only your nickname for me behind.

Reviews

[Neva Flores Smith - Cha..]

hauntingly beautiful........once is transported to this place with you.