there are fantastic winds that move memory
& I sweep easily into the sea
it’s a good day & I don’t leave the sand
I let the tide bury me
slops of kelp keep me warm, a wiggling duvet
I’ve always loved the taste of ocean
it leaks from the crust of dried squid
it pops out of oysters on the axis of my tongue
the seas merge in the wash of my mouth
I grow used to the sand under my spine
The beach knows exactly how it curves
I am here to dispute the impossibility
of time travel— it takes it out of me
here is a projector with unrelenting reels
how do you navigate the terrain of your life
by way of autobiographical cinema?
everyone knows what’s behind the screen:
an arsenal of firecrackers
when you live in an inferno, the only flesh you know
is raw & charred, a perfect cook
how long is the space between my hands
& living? by which unit of measurement? by whose eye?
I have made a deity of the ground
my feet are soft when they press into floors & dirt
there are bounds to a collapse:
eventually I will reach the earth
eventually I will give the occasion a name
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Contributor Notes
t. tran le is a poet from Texas. Their work has appeared in The Breakwater Review & 8 Poems. t. lives in Brooklyn with their partner & three cats.
