Miguel Soto



I am a dreaming Midwesterner,
living between sky and sea.

Despite the distance, the sea arouses
the sky with her wave-breaks,

rubbing the backs of heavy rock. Both
women in their saturating blues,

waiting for the other to reach out
of her depth to collide.

On the sandy shores, I watch the clasping
of hands, belonging to two

masculine, sculpted bodies, closing
in on one another’s starfish lips—

I am a rigid reef—elbows and shoulders decorate
the sandy shores, letting the granular

pulsate into my spongy pores, a laying
sessile, forgetting the imperfect

alignment of my spine to
my hips.

I am waiting for the outpour to
take me in and drown me—
ripples are enough to wash me over,

coursing between my toes
coursing between the soft anemone hairs

on my legs, breaking off into streams,
surging up into the seams of my shorts,

caressing the softest parts of
my flesh.

When I wake, all that’s left is
seafoam drying in the humid

heat dripping off my mantle-head—
a reminder of the long reach.

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