with burning salt water. On the way back to the hotel, you held my hand and I wished that it was his, oversized and hungry. A sinewy man carved a coconut with a machete as carefully as a skilled lover undresses their young darling. Sand is made from defeated rocks, bones of fish and I wanted nothing more than to drink down my shame with that bowed-back man’s sun warm milk. THINGS MAHAVIRA DOESN’T KNOW As a child I saw a cartoon of a devout man endlessly whisking a broom before his steps so that he would not crush an insect never thinking, that the man was real or that the broom wouldn’t save me. Your lips weren’t made to know flesh but they memorized my body, every flaw and spark. Gujarati prayers slipped over nimble tongue and crowded teeth night after stumbling night before you whispered that my thighs were as fair as the milk you boiled and spooned into my mouth.
Kevin M. Hibshman
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Hermes fastidious as always, left me a message for you. Unraveling the scroll in a dream unraveling, I saw etched in gold and framed in ash a true course set to the heart of the sun. We long to emulate the path; the falling star, the shining ones who plotted and planned before us,
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THROWN FROM THE SKY OR TORN FROM THE SEA