Time will come when they'll sing your story;
bearded men will carve fetishes from stray bricks;
everyone will glue feathers upon their backs.
We sliced open your land like a crusty loaf
and planted steel seed; we polished our minds
into the sharpest swords.
Even our walls were expecting too much:
the knotholes unblinking blackened eyes
like so many fathers.
Swallowing anguish like a barbed fruit,
you tied your tongue into a lasso.
It was here that I found you.
It was raining. The wind was tossing gray gulls.
I threw my net over your dark eyes.
We danced, entangled in clouds and dreams.
It was always you who held the entire sea
within your womb; your touch aroused spring
from the throats of yawning orchids.
I traced my past in the forest of your pubis;
lost my future in the crook of your arm.
Anyone awake can look down now,
the bones of extinct birds will be found,
buried in the meat of your palm.
Patrick Loafman has been a seasonal wildlife biologist since 1988. He has two chapbooks of poetry and is currently trying to get his first novel published. He's also an almost-40 skate-punk/surfer, who plays a gourd banjo and talks way too much to his blue cat.