Platurus Leaves Question Marks Along the California Shoreline
There. See
a lurking, yellow-bellied serpent
scorches summer tides and sings.
Her turbulent brethren push
from the lowest
blues, beyond where red is visible.
Will you return home? Will you
visit us with a wind, or mirror
reflection across the space of
geography and time?
But they cannot follow her
where the sand deserts.
Her coils expand. Scales
braid and shell. Amplify.
The deep toxic bloom
swells as she sweeps
through the sand
minds succulent-lodged
needles, evades
moistened lips, such hungry
fingers. Thrusts
meandering
dunes, saltfoam spittle
slicks the way. From here
she absorbs
the sound of the waves she has left.
How the Mirror Absorbs her Gold
I drink bread
to the point
of dehydration
to learn
how the yellow-bellied
sea snake
fills on salt; how
she bides
until satiation.
To languish
while convex; fresh
water lenses collect
along the surface. I tip
my thick elbow
up to pull
the last drops
of porter: a beer
a hint of banana.
Not a gatekeeper.
When the salinity falls
enough (after months
without)
we lap at this source
like angry winds.
By Rain
She comes by rain.
This fin—that tooth. Though armed to the fang. Her potency
dissipates in the great grey salt. No way to distinguish this
slow drift from that current.
Settled along the surface
she waits
watches
as rainwater collects
along the foam of the heavy
legged field—through the heft of time (when sway may take
its form in place) placed in the breadth--
the rust of blood dissipation—the nest
of tails traipse through brilliant expanse.
This is how she drinks.
The pores open. She pivots
from pillar to a wide plain. Unhinges
her body to engulf—enrapt
wrap up in quaking thirst.
*
From this desolate
depth—she resolves
to cease her return.
Men stop postulating as to
how she works—the ways she has
been given to drink.
She does not know how she hydrates
only that she must. She balances
at the counter for the extended time expected—the wild
reach
to the bottom of the glass. Onlookers
assign symbol. Guess. Scales
the often-discussed aspects of her monster-body
ignored—she is weighed in the eye of the sea storm’s rustling.
Currents open to the river’s mouth. Again
she coils
beyond a dune. Thrusting from monsoon.
The life-giving rain
unfolds
the salt transience
of course.
Kari Flickinger is the author of The Gull and the Bell Tower (Femme Salvé Books, December 2020). Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the SFPA Rhysling Award. She is an alumna of UC Berkeley and the Community of Writers.
There. See
a lurking, yellow-bellied serpent
scorches summer tides and sings.
Her turbulent brethren push
from the lowest
blues, beyond where red is visible.
Will you return home? Will you
visit us with a wind, or mirror
reflection across the space of
geography and time?
But they cannot follow her
where the sand deserts.
Her coils expand. Scales
braid and shell. Amplify.
The deep toxic bloom
swells as she sweeps
through the sand
minds succulent-lodged
needles, evades
moistened lips, such hungry
fingers. Thrusts
meandering
dunes, saltfoam spittle
slicks the way. From here
she absorbs
the sound of the waves she has left.
How the Mirror Absorbs her Gold
I drink bread
to the point
of dehydration
to learn
how the yellow-bellied
sea snake
fills on salt; how
she bides
until satiation.
To languish
while convex; fresh
water lenses collect
along the surface. I tip
my thick elbow
up to pull
the last drops
of porter: a beer
a hint of banana.
Not a gatekeeper.
When the salinity falls
enough (after months
without)
we lap at this source
like angry winds.
By Rain
She comes by rain.
This fin—that tooth. Though armed to the fang. Her potency
dissipates in the great grey salt. No way to distinguish this
slow drift from that current.
Settled along the surface
she waits
watches
as rainwater collects
along the foam of the heavy
legged field—through the heft of time (when sway may take
its form in place) placed in the breadth--
the rust of blood dissipation—the nest
of tails traipse through brilliant expanse.
This is how she drinks.
The pores open. She pivots
from pillar to a wide plain. Unhinges
her body to engulf—enrapt
wrap up in quaking thirst.
*
From this desolate
depth—she resolves
to cease her return.
Men stop postulating as to
how she works—the ways she has
been given to drink.
She does not know how she hydrates
only that she must. She balances
at the counter for the extended time expected—the wild
reach
to the bottom of the glass. Onlookers
assign symbol. Guess. Scales
the often-discussed aspects of her monster-body
ignored—she is weighed in the eye of the sea storm’s rustling.
Currents open to the river’s mouth. Again
she coils
beyond a dune. Thrusting from monsoon.
The life-giving rain
unfolds
the salt transience
of course.
Kari Flickinger is the author of The Gull and the Bell Tower (Femme Salvé Books, December 2020). Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the SFPA Rhysling Award. She is an alumna of UC Berkeley and the Community of Writers.