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.