Bare Ankles in the Atlantic

Seashell shocked by the seashore,
shook, shaking, stir crazy sensations
suddenly soaking through sweat stains.
Salt streaked skin waiting.
A stutter.
An unfed stomach growl in the throat
pushing up but not out
just far enough to          hang
between sentences, the stutter stuck
on the simplest acknowledgement.
Something she said sounded
like steal cable wires strum over
an open beer can. A tapped tin tab
flipping between finger tips and

planning out a breakup is stupid.
We live our modern lives in invisible threads
communicating through screens constantly
consistently following patterns as ocean tides,
it fools no one when you ask to talk.
Won’t say what just that it’s private, should sit,
on the mind, needs to be tonight despite
tomorrows plans. An odd distance spans responses.
So blind arrangements are made,
a time a place as if it’s not out of character
to schedule visitation with a partner.
Then revisit the conversation another day,
stressed salt water rung out, thought over
and over into a spinning sun stroke.
I wait for the semi-hollow Epiphone blues
of a conch pressed against my ear
to echo the familiar stutter in time.
Bare ankles in the Atlantic sting
from the cold goodbye.

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Published by: Nic Jean

Nicole Jean Turner is an artist from the Greater Boston area with an affinity for vignettes, napping outdoors, and conversations that confront the human condition. She got her master's in writing at 21, and expects to pay off her student loans by age 87

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