Saints on the Shore
R.M. Corbin
a soft orange mold has grown round the center
of things.
it’s the color of tang, like too-wet sand – gives
way at a paper towel stroke and holds fast at a
fist.
iron wrapped in the good kitchen towels,
placed and draped and hanging
down my shoulders.
my gut an insolent seceding thing.
where and when is that high shining sound?
the little white stars,
growing and shrinking and
growing and growing and
shrinking again –
the constant must of “Do It Again.”
the center holds:
this is a fact of the matter.
but it does get occluded, hidden, filthy
with the growing of
unrooted things.
the center sits on the shore.
has it always?
who am i to know –
to ask –
my stomach up thru my throat.
of things.
it’s the color of tang, like too-wet sand – gives
way at a paper towel stroke and holds fast at a
fist.
iron wrapped in the good kitchen towels,
placed and draped and hanging
down my shoulders.
my gut an insolent seceding thing.
where and when is that high shining sound?
the little white stars,
growing and shrinking and
growing and growing and
shrinking again –
the constant must of “Do It Again.”
the center holds:
this is a fact of the matter.
but it does get occluded, hidden, filthy
with the growing of
unrooted things.
the center sits on the shore.
has it always?
who am i to know –
to ask –
my stomach up thru my throat.
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R. M. Corbin is a writer of fiction, essays, and poetry from San Diego, CA. Their work has been featured in the City Works Literary Journal, New Forum, and Africa World Press.
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