Oceanic. Aimee Nezhukumatathil

will shape my fingers into sarpasirassu—my favorite,

      a snake—sliding down my wrist and into each finger:

       Just look at these colors so marvelous so fabulous

      say the two snakes where my brown arms once were.

      See that movement near my elbow, now at my wrist?

      A snake heart can slide up and down the length of its body

      when it needs to. You’ll never be able to catch my pulse, my shine.

      End-of-Summer Haibun

      To everything, there is a season of parrots. But instead of feathers, we

      searched the sky for meteors on our last night. Salamanders use the stars to

      find their way home. Who knew they could see that far, fix the tiny beads of

      their eyes on distant arrangements of lights so as to return to wet and wild

      nests? Our heads tilt up and up and we are careful to never look at each

      other. You were born on a day of peaches splitting from so much rain and

      the slick smell of fresh tar and asphalt pushed over a cracked parking lot.

      You were strong enough—even as a baby—to clutch a fistful of thistle and

      the sun himself was proud to light up your teeth when they first swelled and

      pushed up from your gums. And this is how I will always remember you

      when we are covered up again: by the pale mica flecks on your shoulders.

      Some thrown there from your own smile. Some from my own teeth. There

      are not enough jam jars to can this summer sky at night. I want to spread

      those little meteors on a hunk of still-warm bread this winter. Any trace left

      on the knife will make a kitchen sink like that evening air

      the cool night before