Lord Coconut, A Poem by Chris Russell

I’ve imagined you reading a book, your hand sleepy on your knee, and have gone into the depths of my mind to feel like I was that hand, but last time I did your hand changed into a spider and started playing hard to get. I tried turning on the charm, but every time I took a step toward it, it took one away from me. I tried to net it with a towel, but when I went to throw it, a small boy blinked from another dimension, swiping the towel from my hands. He was really pushing it. I felt like I couldn’t move. “You come back here with that towel,” I said. “It doesn’t have your name on it,” he said. “Fine. Take the towel,” I said. “What if I don’t want to take it?” He said. From up a palm, your hand had found a vantage point from which to survey the situation unthreatened. It was peeking around some coconuts. “Then give it back,” I said. “What if I don’t want to do either?” He said. He pulled a move. He picked up a large stone and wrapped the towel around it, then threw it into the ocean. “There,” he said. “What do you mean, there?” I said. “It’s perfect,” he said. “It’s in the ocean,” I said. “At the bottom of it,” he said. “And it was mine,” I said. “It was,” he said. That’s right, it was,” I said. Something hit me in the face. I pretended not to notice. I looked down in the sand. Part of a tuna fish sandwich. “Shut up already,” a voice said. I couldn’t tell if it was from a man or woman. I couldn’t isolate the frequency. “I thought maybe they said, “Sure are pretty.” I went into reconnaissance. Mothers in their beach chairs were soaking it in. A couple of kids were burning circles in the sand around a red igloo cooler. Men were unfurling their feathers down by the water. A particularly suspicious looking Mom in an umbrella-print, blue bikini was wiping the corners of her mouth with a wet wipe. It had to be her. She was rubbing it in. And she looked too preoccupied.

%d bloggers like this: