From the selection of poetry curated by Eduardo C. Corral
“This head is for the beast. It’s a gift.”
—Lord of the Flies, William Golding
The ocean kneels, places at their feet bonewhite
driftwood, gaptooth combs, left-foot sandals, and a scattering
of jícara gourds all perfectly round, the size
of baseballs, melons, human heads.
Up and back the sickle-shaped beach, the children yip and snap
as if released from cages, wet hair slaps their faces.
They rattle the gourds like maracas or dice in a cup, wind their arms
and launch them against the craggy rocks.
Peals of laughter echo the gulls. The same number of bones
in a hand as in a wing, a fin.
The gourds explode—gutted of their seed and splayed
against the sand like infant skulls.
The waves a wide-armed sweep, broken game chips
tossed off a table. No prints, no handwriting
to score among the bones.
Such a pale throat, the water’s silver edge.
The children’s faces a hard wet sand, their brown backs a fence.
The gulls wheel and turn dark
shadows on the hot sand, a chandelier, a mobile
in a baby’s crib, teeth flashing the sun, a small fire, a vast mouth,
a blackness within, oh body,
oh body, no time even for a grunt, the world, that diamond haze
of world slipping away.
Something moving behind its head—wings,
there were eyes, claws
gripping the tangle of undergrowth, the shock
of hair, the waves touching
the disappearing shore, a shred of meat
to claim for the nest.
