Like many of my poems, I’m not entirely sure what this is about. I think it needs a few more drafts, but I’m intrigued but it.
I feel for the meat hooks and the tender eyes
that patrol the harbor, the insincere toasts
given at my oldest brother’s wedding the day
of the monsoon when all renounced figgy pudding
and said, “The hell with Christmas, we’re going
to Azerbaijan for the so-called holidays.”
And so we did, dooming my redoubtable brother
and his his Manichean bride, large of eye and heart,
to swim the coldest waters of Tungsten Sound
and fly desolate paper airplanes from the dirty beach.
We sent them a postcard burned at the edges.
It read, in part, “There’s an edge of the world.”