x marks the spot

We are standing here, trembling, our feet glued to a spot on the sand, the spot right above my solar plexus. You reach out across this bone white afternoon and you stitch me open, popping bottles (with the pop crack fizzle remedy) pulling corks, bubbles of minutes and days long gone vanishing in history, but never forgotten. You trace your fingertips on the tracks you left on the map of my back, your fingernails the magnet, your hands the compass.
x
We are standing here, trembling, our feet glued to a spot on the sand, the spot right above my solar plexus. You dig a hole beneath our feet and you keep dig- ging until you hit something. Hard. It’s probably gold. Or wood. Or an animal. Or a corpse. You don’t care. You keep digging.
x
We are standing here, trembling, our feet glued to a spot on the sand, the spot right beneath my solar plexus. Perhaps you’ve found what you’ve been looking for. You fish out a box and it’s empty before you even open it. Of course I know.
x
We are standing here, trembling, our feet glued to a spot on the sand, the spot right above my solar plexus. It’s another bottle map shovel hole another empty box. Another cross section. You keep searching. There are no other crosses. You keep digging.
x

AN: In celebration of National Poetry Day (?), I present to you an old piece I am particularly fond of. I wrote this for the lit section of my high school’s publication under the theme “Message in a Bottle”, which was probably my favorite theme in retrospect. I experimented with writing styles then and was heavily influenced by Richard Siken, and the summer before that was a good time in the (continuing) evolution of my writing style. There is obviously lots of room for improvement still but I’m happier with it just like this. I guess it’s one of those poems I’d rather keep raw and unedited. Nowadays I find myself stuck in a creative drought, and this is one of the poems that keep me from giving it up altogether. I remember the potential, the feeling I had before real life messed up my creativity. That is poetry for me– being able to verbally encapsulate a feeling, a piece of scenery, or a moment in time that perhaps would have remained forever lost and unintelligible.

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