Cynthia Arrieu-King

What “studied girls” and “great art”?

The hallway prompts, enter

your human fifteen hour day.

A dreamed samosa slips. Gull tracks

and sand lack spike and fur.

On cloudy days, the sand travels

in the air instead of half-wet, 

watered over with obsessions.

The dew rushing down the tensed

glass; sun glinting so hard on each

petal the scent on top pushes down

until your happiness plays terrible.


The world says and it says

by successive accident: a chain

of sailing boats in no way intended

to brush that long tongue of whiskey

out of your mouth. Or wished-for

Puerto Rico to smother you in

hot sand. Goodbye. Go to

the window shirtless, the pollen,

the gardenias coming together,

murmuring for you, outside.