Between the gumbo and the beer, we map our funerals on a paper tablecloth at Fisherman’s Corner.
Our waitress remembers us from May.
“Kids are the ones who scribble on the sheet,” she says, “Aren’t you the one who bit into a pearl?”
“Yeah, it’s still rolling around in my purse.”
Easter Propers. So put it to paper.
I catch a glimpse of a dorsal fin in the lagoon, and my neck stretches like a heron.
Sex trafficking runs up and down the Florida Keys – hunting ground – and Tiffany Heaven Daniels is still missing.
A doctoral student warned us against eating gulf seafood. Tainted from the spill, he said. I can’t not eat my cultural foods.
Smells and Bells
“Maybe it’s part of the human condition to resist wherever home is,” I say.
Past the fried crunch, okra seeds are the plant world caviar, tiny eggs nested as a flower.
A pelican eyes the water from a piling.
“Hymns are tricky,” he says, “We don’t have an app for that.”
The Bishop celebrates.
“You know, if I were to list every sin I’ve committed,” I say, “I’d run out of paper.”
The air tastes sweet and briny. I want to bottle pine oak marsh and bring it home to the Ozarks.
“Sprinkle me here in January, and I’d be happy with that.”
“Did you know very few organizations understand the importance of failure?”
I love it when he trims his beard. His lips show like a woman’s slip.
For the clergy to vest, he says.
I tear the paper from the table and fold it snug in my purse. We step off the porch and wander to the concrete edge.
I find a battered mosaic under the bridge. One of the hurricanes wiped the little buildings clean. Now there are bottle caps pressed into dirt and phallic graffiti on the balustrade.
Don’t forget, a sung service.
The dark ripples, and
We are ash and light on the ink.