Galapagos in Spring – Christine Hamm

Galapagos in Spring

We sit on the beach in our underwear, trying to figure out which bit of
broken plate fits into which by looking at the china patterns. The sand is
warm, flesh-colored, the water like it’s from an uncle’s bathtub.

Bats hang in the trees, stretching their wings and yawning. One of them
complains, I feel broken in two.

I spell messages on your calves with my mother’s lipstick, emergency,
coconut-flavored, red-cross, but you’re on your phone, texting someone
else. I whisper, running like a coked up reindeer, I try to break my head
against a brick wall, and it hurts so much I have to do it the rest of my
life.

You put a hand on your paper hat and wave to the bats, calling, I know
what you mean. I shuffle to the rim of the waves, past two half-blown
shacks, an overturned VW bug, banana peels and fake nails.

I say, I feel broken into, and hope you can’t smell me. My toes are
bruised and swollen, I suppose you remember why.

 

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