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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3481 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Human Consolations Laurie Byro On the Leeward side of the island, mermaids brush each other’s hair. The youngest, an innocent, squeezes out a thick sea sponge to wash the breasts of her sister. Another, whose hair is coal black, braids the elder’s into a crown of burnished fire. A couple on the beach, half hidden by pink frangipani make love. The coven with their iridescent tails, the swiftness and color of cold rivers, watch the pair bob up and down awkwardly, as if in pain, as if they are drowning. The young one starts to rescue them, her sister steadies her with her hand, saying “It’s always like this; they cry then they stop.” On the Windward side of the island, the poet’s yard is littered with leaves from flamboyant trees. The man bends while he digs a hole to bury a young cormorant. Red-lipstick petals blow down and cling to him like kisses while he works. He thirsts. 72 days and counting. He sweats. 59 days in basements of churches with the other shipwrecked men and women. Three months, almost, since he drank his gin, warm and neat. He swam to the cave of forgotten flowers that are tangerine and lime and bloom beneath. They are shy and hide when touched. Hours before, he ended it with a woman. She agreed he could never make her complete. She wept, she thrashed on his bed, sat on the edge of his writing desk with her legs spread trying to inspire his pen. He told her he couldn’t; she left. Then the manatee. Or was it the gin? He walked along the beach, remembered the old sin he had memorized, myths “singing each to each.” His trousers, rolled, he was half drunk by then. Of course, he hadn’t dared to eat his peach, he sent her away unfinished. But the manatee. The sun set her hair on fire. He would take a year off, leave his flask, uninspired. On the Leeward side, of the island the sisterhood continue to preen one another. They braid their hair, they hum songs about lonely sailors and moonlight. Meanwhile, they pat mud on bloody scratches from caves where the flowers are shy. They count each petal, mark each day since they dallied in human consolation. |
