by Dustin King

Paddling out alone in the morning I watch a pair of woodpeckers
banging their bright mohawked heads against a tree trunk.
At home in my backyard I soak and scrub my feet
but the earth refuses to let me go.
Cardinals, too sinfully red to be so monogamous,
as wet as we were paddling the swamp,
tease one another, hop, shake off morning dew,
the crepe myrtles’ pink pom-poms cheerleading,
and morning glories wide-eyed, azure, waiting to wink
until the right moment just like you.

Last night across the campfire you said
what fun it would be to love men as much as women!
Man, you say all kinds of wild shit:
Eyes flame-lit, you insisted birds don’t really exist;
they’re drones, surveillance devices sent by the government.

But Jeff, I followed you as you followed a heron, flirting with her,
or him, olympian wings beating air as we slid between cyprus knuckles,
your kayak parting the glaze of neon algae still as time often feels but never is,
Spanish moss hanging overhead like clothes left on the line for centuries.

I watched you fall in love with that animal, Jeff.
And watching, I fell a little more in love with you!

You’re like the tick tickling my underarm.

Or one of the hundred or so mosquito hickies,
love bites stinging longer than they should
as memories of sweethearts often do.

Scratch one and the others fade.
Then flare right back up again.

Dustin would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and exchanges dreams with loved ones in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in Prism Review, New Letters, Marrow Magazine, samfiftyfour, and other rad spots. He is a poetry reader for Sublunary Review and curates the poetry and performance event “Yodel Farm.” His first chapbook Last Echo is now available from Bottlecap Press. His second Courteous Gringo will be out this Fall from Seven Kitchens Press.