2 poems
SEA NETTLE
Immediate red. But red, I offer,
is relative, the drag marks on my arm
not so straightforward—depends on the light—
those welts faded, then days later, in sun,
came back. After all hot day beneath sand,
transparent crabs resurface—delicate—
as drop by drop I turn to your absence.
My first error was not of flesh—I lived,
and the stinging thing thrummed off I think unmarked.
Deeper than flesh. The interior mark.
Which, like an anglerfish with her light, I
hold over my own head in blue water.
CALIFORNIA, POMPEII
Rawness
in the light.
The way it laid itself
down pale
across the mountains
the scraped, dry mountains.
A little fire
to fill the clean mouth
of night as it opened
around us.
Your undressed feet
beautiful as stricken horses.
My conviction
that the raw thing I want
waited in you.
How desire piled
up on me
stem by stem
when I slept,
ash
over white stone.
Emelie Griffin is a poet and editor from Florida. She is currently the managing editor for Gulf Coast.