August, Old Brickyard, Chilmark
Barefoot into the silky
spillage of clay from rust
red cliffs, we scoop handfuls —
gleeful muck, plaster our faces,
necks, tanned calves, thighs.
A cleanse must dry — tight.
Climb the beach’s broken
ladder for the vast hilltop view
of the Sound. Mother/daughter,
we stage a scenic selfie — masked
faces foreground, backdrop
chimney of the brick factory ruin.
Clogged pores pull open.
A bump centers her spiral
fluorescent tie-dyed shirt.
Month seven, fetus detects
voices, intuits the order
of waves. Has all skin, toes,
eyes, hair. Curls up, cramped.
Elbows his mother’s organs.
Fists and lips. Penis. Testicles,
for making his millions, his billions,
his swimmers. Her hand attaches
to my shoulder — grip of ringless
fingers and thumb. Her furnace,
his universe. Out of the top of my
selfie head, the chimney stack appears
to rise from my scalp. My face mask
cracks. I had — have — ovaries — two,
no longer productive. A stick-tendered
nest sits tip-top of this chimney. Osprey,
white-headed, flies off for the fetching
of fish from the Sound for her offspring.
Dives — yellow eyes sighting straight along
talons — snatches a striped bass, flies back
to red bricks, fired from this cliff.
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