the ocean is laughing again with its one hollow noise
and the constellation Orion is but five semi-bright stars
making an awkward illumination: a tilted candelabra. i note this

after i dream that we are on good terms, speaking again;
but, your tongue is mid-glossolalia and i am in rags. i wake;
the air smells slightly of flowers and salt. like sea lilies.

i stumble like a false Christ to the kitchen, carrying
the burden of another swig of whiskey. it burns my throat
with liquid wasp-sting and i realize i slept through the afternoon.

i missed the sunset here, where it is supposed to be
another gorgeous version of suicide. bloody as my conscience.
mauve and violet as my ego when you left me behind because

i am not as beautiful as i could be. this body is different, but
then again who doesn’t have a different body? i feel that love
is only ethereal: a tether between what two people really are.

i drink until i sleep in a numb, dreamless cave. you stay
beside me and toss me in my sleep like a rogue wave.
when i wake, you aren’t present: nothingness keeps me

company in the midst of my guilt. i make a mimosa
and almost make one for you. i make a toast to you, dearest,
ghostly lover. i gesture toward the beach outside my window

where i am supposed to be sunning. may you always
haunt my past and harbor me loosely toward the future.
the mica bright miracle of sand on the shore glints

like knives under the crown of the sun peaking over horizon:
i stare into it until i must stare away. not every bone in my body
can believe in the most obvious of resurrections.

Samuel J Fox

Samuel J Fox

Samuel J Fox writes poetry and personal/lyric essays. He queers the lines often and refuses to concede with social norms. He has been published most recently in Luna Luna Magazine and A Quiet Courage; he is forthcoming in Muse/A Journal and Glassworks Magazine.
Samuel J Fox

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