Back to Issue Twenty.

fingers on cross necklace x beach

BY VINCENT HAO

 

malibu sand creases softer,
                        tells jesus stories more often,
            escapades of him in blue denim & socks—
            feet rattlesnaking over burning coal,
the way he’ll laugh until it sounds
                       like the sky is blossoming tattoos again.

tell me about jesus, how his mouth looks in whisper.
                        yes, and the malibu ocean
                        forming a jaw,

yes, and the guitar strings twanging off the surf,
           faucets of bronze bells
and cataracts, chestless babies constructing.
                       i’m wondering how jesus tastes in your malibu
mouth— tooth by tooth, the wander
                       of a lazy eyekiss
           only toeing the bleach-white medallions of sand.

maybe this time, under the shadow of smoke,
                        he is explosive canister bonfires touched
            by gasoline fingers. too many volcanoes buried
            deep under skin.

maybe he is touching his sides,
            placing christmas wreaths against sunburnt skin,
small & psychedelic in his sheepskin robe,
                       stealing the glances
            of midwives & stationary waves & shy rocks
                       hidden behind ocean crags.

this time— two boys loving, two feet halfway against
                         water in high tide,
                         only the last soft fingers
           of admirers hoping to remember something past
the taste of cherry wine.
he’s bending, maybe, two hands on flaking malibu skin.
           unsure, quiet, two eyes lined towards the horizon again.

 

 

Hao 20

Vincent Hao is an aspiring writer who attends high school in Austin, Texas. He enjoys reading poetry and writes in his spare time. His work has been published in Anomaly Literary Journal and Albatross and is forthcoming from Soundings East, Blood Orange, and River Styx.

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