by Courtney Hitson
This sky unpeeled her eyelids’ opal interiors
and tossed you in the ocean—blotches of rainbow
bled onto your scales. Like flicking
shiny, pastel wishes into the sea. Diving,
I saw your mammoth buck teeth chomp at coral,
to dislodge crags as if the back-end of a pearl hammer,
blunted into angled, grinning tusks. You
and your rapscallions, like children escaped
to feed on landscapes of shortbread, jaws overflowing
with reef, shoals percussing with your insatiate
schools. But paramount I need to remember
those grinning eyes, smartened
wild by an ocean.
Courtney Hitson teaches English at the College of the Florida Keys. She currently has work forthcoming in Potomac Review and Flying Island Literary Journal. Outside of writing, she enjoys scuba-diving, freestyle unicycling, and philosophy. Courtney and her husband, Tom (also a poet), reside in Key West, Florida with their two cats.
Hawaii Pacific Review 