by Bill Wolak
more human than animal
We’ve established humans have had their hour
and are on the wane
it’s evident when stepping outside to grab some milk
you see young men ransacking stores
after marching hours in the dying sun
marks of ozone holes in their eyes.
The place I met you isn’t the same anymore
they tore down where we lived, and built a tourist resort
it blocks out the sea for the locals
who work cleaning pools that reek of chlorine and cheap cocktails
our bed was probably used for kindling, our sheets might
still hold together boats, the wine we drank could have
grown this very fig tree, your semen may still be spilt in earth
I cannot recall the street name, or form words to describe
how the sun set, its raging colors and curtseying beauty
over our young arrogant skin
I only know, we were then, more animal than human
fucking without hour, no regard, growing swollen
with the grind and lubrication of each other
until I ripped myself apart and bore a child
resembling neither of us
and in that salty water my blood floated
iron rich and fused to life, we made love
before I’d healed and blocked out the world
diving beneath waves so long it seemed
breathing was optional.
I only know, we were then, more animal than human
leaving our short pasts behind, long limbed and light footed
running the length of the island, calling it our own
like we could ever possess anything but death
like we could ever be more than dried footprints
for someone to discover years hence
a covenant, a posy, the fling of ruin
our child long buried, the last of us
to hear sea encroach and recede in one long breath
night murmur of unseen birds, trilling in lusty trees
and when the crabs came scuttling across black sand
the very volcano breathed deep and belched its heart
exposing a crater as wide as your smile
where it was said a meteor had once crashed
causing extinction and turning silica into glassy graveyard.
A mosaic, you might be part of when the sixth
extinction dips its pen into the ocean and algae
blooms artificially bright at night, poisoning air
and fungi swamps the land in relentless creamy march
obliterating the last sign of us; our little beating
red hearts surrounded in blue blood
where your fossil will lie magical beneath a
glass tree and you will sing the song of your parents
more animal than human, fused in chalky bone
one day become a cliff, rugged and sea-chaffed
where wild moss creeps, unstoppable and in spring
turns a strange lovely violet.
Candice L. Daquin is of Egyptian, French heritage. She grew up in Europe & immigrated to the USA to become a Psychotherapist. Daquin is also Senior Editor with Indie Blu(e) & Raw Earth Ink. She regularly edits for The Pine Cone Review, Parcham Literary Magazine, Tint Journal and others. As a queer immigrant woman of mixed heritage, Daquin’s work is her politic.
Bill Wolak is a poet, collage artist, and photographer who has just published his eighteenth book of poetry entitled All the Wind’s Unfinished Kisses with Ekstasis Editions. His collages have appeared as cover art for such magazines as Phoebe, Harbinger Asylum, Baldhip Magazine, and Barfly Poetry Magazine.