by Elizabeth Harlan Ferlo
I cross-hatch white scratches on my plate’s raised bank. Flotsam that terraced pink flesh stacks lightly, grill-singed at the tips. I think of them pushing from salt to clear. These held against water. These, bones. At the high school all the boys are on crutches, some girls too. Already they’ve begun the terrible galloping, begun to ossify. White-knotted sinews pull wrist-flicked nets. Hips and knees knit eddies on the sticks of their legs. The land’s people live here still by dammed rivers, waterfalls buried by flood. They wait seasonal runs. Our new false turf drains and bounces under fallen flesh, still cannot stop what breaks.