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.