Nesting Season

Little sleep. The night heat did not relent.
You startle me up as day breaks over the tent
to show me the sea-turtle tracks you found
through the bluestems behind the campground.
I hardly rub my eyes when you unzip
the mosquito mesh with insistence, gripped
by the life that washed up so near to us.
On the shore we are careful not to fuss
with the fin-prints spread on the sand.
We tip-toe over dunes, the day unplanned
on this beach with its unreported nest,
our watchful footing, and little rest.

 

Consider the Lilies

Running the limestone trail in Bill Baggs Park,
I hear sea-grape leaves crunch underfoot.
As for the rest beneath this mangrove arch
I’m confounded, tongue-tied, and hard-put.
Whatever croaks the first persons saw fit
Became the names of things in our world.
What was once sharp ancestral wit,
Is now a coral relic. And yet, new shoots
Do unfurl. So today I’ll play off
my ignorance, overhaul the taxonomy,
And refuse our moldy inheritance.
I present you my own ecology:
Zebrafly, Flowergun, Pinkfrond, Snailroot,
Fingerslinks, Spaceclam, Oysterleaf, Swampfruit

 

Michael Angel Martín was born and raised in Miami, FL. His interests include stringed musical instruments, benedictine contemplation, and mall food. His poems can be found in or are forthcoming in Dappled Things, Anglican Theological Review, The Offbeat, Green Mountains Review, Saint Katherine Review, The Mondegreen, Pilgrim, Presence, Jai-Alai, and elsewhere.

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