There is no an exit strategy
Two men argue on the beach.
I explained to people walking by that this was my body, my body, but finally a reader pointed out the whale bones, and goddammit, I’m inside.
One man turns to the other, points to the sky.
No spiritual paths here.
That, he says, that is the sun.
I tried to slip through, and I was prepared to pay.
The other man disagrees. It’s the moon, he responds.
There’s an easy way home, if I could just find it.
A third man stumbles across them, and they appeal to him.
Is that the moon or the sun?
It’s the unraveling.
He stares at the sky.
In the distance, music of a baseball brawl
He looks at the two men, back at the sky, back
at the two men.
I’m sorry, he replies. I’m not from around here.
The signs outside the country school protest a non-nation, a place that once was. Our culture is flexible, let’s end a revolution. By what right is the truth biased? Divest. I hit my shoulder often to remove a fly that I cannot find, but it returns. Feet on my skin, then it lifts its front legs, rubs them together like a movie villain, and I feel obvious.
I pull my hair up, I wait. There is nothing. We must begin the retrial for the concept of freedom. A tickle on my neck, I scratch my skin red.
What does this all mean, reader? Posit. You know as much as I.
Three cows investigate a woman’s corpse and call mournfully for her to feed them. In front of a brick wall, a cat flicks its tail to the tune of Giovanni. There are several ways to bake a pie, but it seems most effective to use the roof of the church, and that is what the teenagers here do. Moments later, I walk through a chalk drawing of the sun after it rains and now I have the footsteps of a bee, pollen pollen half step.
Suzi F. Garcia is a poet in the MFA program at Notre Dame. She spends her free time watching teen dramas with her boyfriend and cats or dancing to YouTube videos on repeat.