Mad Girl of Seagulls Ray Succre
Come to the rocks, madness— they feebly yell the flowers down; even quaint murmurs break a stem’s small bones. Come to my feet, braided in stinking smoke. These gulls are a poultice to the air, these stiffly wavered, storming windrakes. Mad girl who rides them over low foam to the deadly mass of this coastal bowel-surf, madness, come to the rocks at my feet and breathe your ugly shrieks beneath them. My booted feet lift the sand to your mouth. My gloved hands pour the dirt from your uterus. Set down your bread bits and whiles for your gulls, but settle the rest, to this dreadful man of me, atop his rocks with a scummy stature, and whose eyes have never reflected the sky. Come to the grass we can cut with a cough.
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