Cathexis Northwest Press

© 2018 

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If Vultures Could Swim

The excuse to stay with him is a swelling belly

with a poem inside. But all he

sees is a glass bottle in an empty sea.

 

You tell me like a letter, “I’m fine,”

 

but I see a puncture inside every

space between the words. The air

chokes inside the glass stomach 

 

that crunches if I open you. If vultures

could swim, they’d feast on your

skin as he drowns you.

 

But you believe in him again.

Everything is fine

though a child cries inside.

Frank Geurrandeno is a poet residing in the Roanoke Valley of Virginia. His works can be found in Driftwood Press, Boston Literary Magazine, Sediments Literary-Arts Journal, and elsewhere.