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What is Form


A sort of accident and the sea claims the body of my father as its own. A conversation between wood pointed and arch shaped, cutting knife, no leisure without danger, there is. Small vessel like body, wood pointed and arch shaped, shaped like a fishhook, a spoon, cutting knife. Triangular salty sails in the mold of scissors, a toy top rolling on a turbulent surface, wood pointed and arch shaped. Brings us to the island, a cutting knife through the surface of water. Brings us all together again and again and.  


Artificially weathered, the dreaded luxury of boredom, bearing the weight of nostalgia nagging at the drunken damsels at the dining room table. History rich with reused shingles and siding stretching to the sea, says brother, where the sand will one day overtake everything we have. Shut up shut up shut up. Go out onto the terrace, take a look at the furnishings which have been made to comfort tipsy sun kissed siblings. Why can’t you just see the sea seeing the house ahead instead of dreading such doom.  


Strong taste made easy made natural second nature like drinking water, overtime, they say, grief fades but I think it just gets numb.  


I am glad you’re gone, even if just for the morning. I can hear the impact of that little ball. Green is the thing you hold in your clutch, just this once don’t you want me to play opponent, over at that chain link playpen with your cocky sun-bleached sneakers, or are you too good for me?   


Little portal, wooden, watching small soldier pawns in the form of skipping stones, laying flat on the board. Triangular slices of black and gray in tandem with smooth wood, flat on the table with two opposing chairs pulled outward and then set to bear the weight of competition. Roll of die heavy in the palm, slick with nervous sweat, hair still wet with sea water. These moves are fated, determined by a slight of hand and a drop, definite as pouring a drink you’ve intended to finish. I don’t know why you always win at this, I can’t play my best with brother watching us. Feet planted firmly on the floor, legs apart and back hunched with elbows resting on the knees and fingers interlaced, just staring from face to board to face to board to. Face.  


Thin, meticulous hands, ever moving and slightly hesitating before plunging into hanging swim trunks and children’s cowboy costumes onto the clothesline, pinning with clothespins, pining with dull eyes and reaching arms. Why is it that your wife always has so much to do? Why is it that your kids are so fearful? Your goddamn busy wife, your goddamn nervous children. The bend in her elbows as she folds your clothing, her desire to iron the sea flat. She is a stranger to us. You are a goddamn stranger.  


A white fabric maybe protected from age with a plastic slip, hung in a closet for years, and then zipped up, perfect still like a glove if you’re lucky. How does marriage suit you now? Is it ill fitting, too loose or too tight? Is it yellowing with age, does it grow mold around the skirt, are there loose threads? Not my wife. Not mine. While you lack party participation, sit back and examine with judgmental eyes, unable to stop looking down your nose at this costume party. I bet you wish your wife longed for her wedding night.  


The color of sheer intoxication, the alcohol of a present moment dedicated to pleasure, everybody here has no beginning and no end. Light orbs of air escaping into the sea breeze, out the double doors and away from the balcony, in the direction of Cape Cod’s shoulder. You’ve never been a chaser. You’ve always been a runner. So why exactly are you here?  


Unable to root down in the unpalatable sand, prone to blacken and break off from source, how familiar is that? How familiar is that? If you’re wanting to acknowledge the truth of those around you then you might as well look at yourself too. You lover of goodbyes, stale loaf of bread, hardened like a rock on impact. If I’ve done it before I can do it again. You think you’ll never come back? I’ll make it so you can never leave. 


Letting go of the cloth I hold you down with, with head in the water, with blood in the water, with sand and silt in the hair. With old fishhooks and wrecked boats at the bottom, I leave you without another word. In the same way you flee this family, I flee responsibility, you flee this island, I rid my hands of your blood and your pain and your reasons and your and your. The boat takes you away from here, the current pushes you farther, the current spits out women, naked and sighing in relief.  

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