BEfore we notice the wood thirsting
by sofia bagdade
I
here at high tide
the home in half
we stand in the frame,
voyeurs who soften at the underbelly
who claim the house with wires spilled out,
electric ivy currents
swells of sanded shards
of diamond, argyle tile, a game
of clue
lab goggles and fireball bottles fogged
sea scraps and on the far wall a map:
North America glossy and scholastic,
water laps, the continent grows
seasick then
the decal peeled off the wall,
terraform
the shore, shrunken, the water
has won and dried and now
we tire of all things slippery
II
three people on the beach and all in purple hats,
gray whiskers and sea-stained hands
I’ve seen the ocean, just not like this
he hands us
a pockmarked piece of driftwood
this shell of orange opal in my palm, for you,
No, you see, my wife is an accountant,
I won’t bring anything home anymore, we’ve got shells
up to the ceiling and soon we will
swallow what sustains us
III
so quiet, the sound of drying water