by Gaynor Kane
Burning Hands, II
She went St. Monica – in her hand, my heart.
In the other a box. Her tail a twist of blood.
Sand art, she said, why not – everything forgets.
Then she kissed me hard as she could,
split my lip – spit me off into a wave,
so now I live forever, impossible, lost memory.
Smaller than keeping. And yet. And yet
my spine goes capering off my skin in a shiver
– I guess I was afraid. The pain is so much.
I guess I’m still afraid. I smile for her,
all this grit in my teeth. She chirps at me.
Nothing I eat has any flavor. I eat for her.
I grind sand-crabs between my teeth.
Doesn’t matter. The world is almost all water.
Maybe I really am afraid. She comes with me
so there’s no escape. We follow the tide
like a line in a poem that keeps changing.
To the end, she says, and living forever –
like a toast – then raises the box –
I am silent – I don’t know what I want –
and she drops my heart inside, as I watch.
I didn’t know.
There is no patron saint
of lost children.
Adam Ai is a poet and U.S. Army veteran from Los Angeles. His work is seen in many print and online publications. He lives with a Ghost. Hobbies include time travel and teaching robots love. Connect with him on Twitter and Instagram @AdamAiPoems and visit adamaipoems.com for more.
Gaynor Kane lives in Belfast, Northern Ireland, where she is a part-time creative, involved in the local arts scene. She writes poetry and is an amateur photographer, and in both is looking to capture moments that might be missed otherwise. Discover more at gaynorkane.com