J.D. Isip




Maybe, for you, there is no spray nor scent of the ocean,
            no sugar grains of sand clinging to the fine hairs on your legs,
            your two big toes digging little holes, no hungry boy circling
            lotion on your shoulders, letting his fingers linger there

Maybe there’s no sweat on your tongue, no salt in a name
            you haven’t heard or spoken in years, a line of letters
            etched onto empty pages that follow the last one you wrote
            it on to say don’t forget to or because I love or goodbye

Maybe genetic memory is a myth, the idea that honey
            remembers the hexagonal home of its origin, the belief
            that what was will continue to shape whatever will be. Maybe
            it’s another fable of fate when what is, is real, is sweeter.