Songbird, tiniest crab on my fingertip, tussled and tossed and flip-belly horseshoe. At the periphery of the golf course, a blue butterfly dips in and out of cattails. She burns borders tender, moves clear through: dusting everything, trailing life. She slurps everyone up. Soft body against the sea -rusted private property sign, the men in cargos riding plastic white cars on the greens, wielding metal rods. The armored check point I mean entry gate, angry red stop sign, cop pacing this stretch of sand back and forth, back and forth, smiling at the bodies of animals in linen on lounge chairs who paid good money to be here, laminated flags on each car. Last week, I’m told Bradley Cooper ran these backroads shirtless. Oh, aching world. All I want to do is touch you, for everyone to touch you equally, equitably. Rising tide-bodies, shore covered in coins: pink and yellow iridescents, deflated balloon heads tongued by each communal wave: congrats, grad! and one bright nylon star come down from the heavens to glint among human feet, burning on this land.
Zoë Fay-Stindt (she/Z/they) is a queer, bicontinental poet with roots in both the French and American south. Their poetry has appeared in museum galleries, on the radio, on the streets of small towns, in community farm newsletters, and other strange and wonderful places. Z’s work has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and has been featured or is forthcoming in RHINO, Muzzle, VIDA, Southeast Review, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. She lives in Ames, Iowa, where she is an MFA candidate at Iowa State University and co-managing editor for the environmental writing journal, Flyway.