fingers on cross necklace x beach
BY VINCENT HAO
malibu sand creases softer,
tells jesus stories more often,
escapades of him in blue denim & socks—
feet rattlesnaking over burning coal,
the way he’ll laugh until it sounds
like the sky is blossoming tattoos again.
tell me about jesus, how his mouth looks in whisper.
yes, and the malibu ocean
forming a jaw,
yes, and the guitar strings twanging off the surf,
faucets of bronze bells
and cataracts, chestless babies constructing.
i’m wondering how jesus tastes in your malibu
mouth— tooth by tooth, the wander
of a lazy eyekiss
only toeing the bleach-white medallions of sand.
maybe this time, under the shadow of smoke,
he is explosive canister bonfires touched
by gasoline fingers. too many volcanoes buried
deep under skin.
maybe he is touching his sides,
placing christmas wreaths against sunburnt skin,
small & psychedelic in his sheepskin robe,
stealing the glances
of midwives & stationary waves & shy rocks
hidden behind ocean crags.
this time— two boys loving, two feet halfway against
water in high tide,
only the last soft fingers
of admirers hoping to remember something past
the taste of cherry wine.
he’s bending, maybe, two hands on flaking malibu skin.
unsure, quiet, two eyes lined towards the horizon again.
