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(That familiar premise: if you were left alone on an island, what would you pack?) - 2023 September 20 |
Day 227:
I am writing with the burnt husk of a coconut.
On an angled cliff face by my palm frond hut.
They told me I could pack 10 things,
but I made a mistake.
Day 228:
I am thrusting my groin into a ripe papaya fruit.
On a shaded bed of seagull down, in my birthday suit.
Did I really need the camp stove? Yeeees—no regrets.
I’m fine.
Day 229:
I cannot read pages 102-115 of my favorite book. I’m sick.
I see the pages part like thighs and I begin to lick.
The tang of damp ink and acid beckon,
dyslexically flirty…
Day 230:
I would sacrifice my sleeping bag for your body.
The rain tarp for your hair rustling across me.
Take my water jug and let me lick your sweat.
I’m done.
Day 231.
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