SWEET N’LOW
NATALIE FOURMYLE
Salt water laps over itself
in it, and the cloud-covered sky reflects blue
in the ocean that reaches for my toes
where foam cleans off sand and shell splinters.
I clothe my damp feet in ruffled magenta
socks and sulfur smeared sneakers.
Hair pokes through synthetic fibers.
Forgot to shave, so I shed sand
and glide the razor over my legs
covered in pink-smelling shaving cream.
Smoothe flesh; blood dribbles
from the nick on my ankle.
I lather calamine lotion on my twig
legs after they dry and remind myself
to cover my skin because those I’ve known
love what they can snap in two.
Fresh water runs down the mountain
like spit. The inside of my mouth
is made of begonia bushes.
This is where Inurse on river water
and chew on pebbles.
Trout speckled gold with salmon stripes
swim by, unaware of their luxury of ignorance.
I wonder what the trout think
when they see hooks dive beneath the surface
with a plump worm poised at the precipice
between life and danger.
Or do the fish desire to swim downstream
in the river that rests deep in Earthen
mounds that rise with each breath and settle back into Her,
like my breasts that expand with breath while
I squeeze tight to the hot pink pepper spray pressed into my palm.
Sparkling water scrapes down
my throat at the diner with dried salt
water on my ankles. The waitress serves
me lemonade with one pink sugar packet.
I stare out the window at the plastic flamingo
across the street standing on one leg for balance.
I am notified to *call the pharmacy for candy coated pink pills.
I emerge from the booth, put a quarter in
the gum machine by the door. Purple comes out.
I blow a bubble, poised at the
precipice of perfection
until.
It pops.
On the ride to the pharmacy,
I chew on the question, what’s the use?
of loving the ocean and fish
unable to change their paths,
unable to find the answer
and follow the direction of their will.
Pharmacy on the right.
I turn the car left.