Kingfisher
I forgot to tell you about the umbrella in my drink, I think there’s something caught in your throat but
I promise it’s not my fault. I don’t think you should worry. Once the toothpick is clear
through, nothing matters very much anymore.
There’s a mess pooling in your clavicle. Rolling rich and ripe,
sliding down your collarbone. Once, someone described a train-track
suicide to me as “all strawberry jam”.
I’m rushing through it all. Biting down on the bullet, sinking
my teeth into something crushing.
There’s a bird watching the pool, the world is tense and bright and
everything hangs in this moment. There is sweat beading on your lip,
my hair sticking to your neck. My eyes are sharp and my mind is blank.
It’s a new combination, be grateful.
The afternoon is overripe, oversaturated, drenched
in endless potential and you’re overcome. The world is ending tonight and you’ll spend the day
lying by the grotto with the kingfisher.
I’m trying not to think about the breakfast already laid out on the kitchen table for tomorrow.
Sara Valentine is a poet from Austin, Texas, who enjoys playing with language nearly as much as playing with her food. Her work can be found in various places, such as Stirring Lit., EmMag, and the Emerson Review.