Isabella on the Ocean

There is an orchestra of crickets speaking these anger words of hers.

& you need to stop writing about me. I do not follow time because
you do. I am not interesting, nor interested in your interpretations.
I exist a black fly on your tongue, a rolling tongue, it is like a worm
and I will never be the soil. There will be no love here. I will die
young; not because of a misstep, but from how you bore me.

Bore into me with your soft flesh—I am not asking—& maybe in the
morning I will tell you these secrets brimming with boiled dew. You
cling like I am a blade of crabgrass and I am not.

I am Sahara legs and deepened sun lips & somewhere there is a dark
pit for you to enter like tendered cattle, but I will never let you know
where. Tell him I'm not really sorry. I passed away two nights ago in my
rusted age. Tell him tiny natures to make him sleep better. This isn't really
about him anyway.


Isabella in the Desert