ISLAND
By Jennifer Chapis
Black-sand beaches, mango-beaked birds,
language-cloth the island wears.
Beauty, like drums,
invigorates the peculiar,
uprights those stings at odds.
Powder growing fire overhead,
wet flowers bloom on the air—
immaculate belly of a windswept tulip.
The right kiss is ubiquitous.
Reflective walk on ocean floor.
Trail waiting for gravity
to see clearly,
light waves are longer at sunset—
I have swallowed my spider-heart.