Beachland

She bought the car for leisure;
to feel her hair lift like in the commercials
when she passed along the estuary,
waved at ducks and neighbours
and she would feel safe and wanted,
snug like in a blanket before the fire
those harsh Belfast winters with her brothers,
all ten of them, and she would tell Simon
the barista to take his tea and hers to go,
to climb on into her blue Volvo, see the
wind in clouds pass through the town,
the fog swell, peel back, reveal the real
bones and marrow of the matter—love
they shared between each other, unsaid,
declared in dreams and marriages of Sunday
masses in their minds. She would watch
from grey deserted shores, listening to her
other lover Igor Stravinsky, their tides unite,
their tides depart and leave the beachland
glistening slate, wrinkled igneous mystery
as far as eyes like theirs could see.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can also donate some of your hard-earned dollars down below—that’s money to me, for free!

 

Gabriel Muoio

$1.00

 

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