he punctuates the days
puts yellow hair in an envelope
leaves dark ones in the sink
he came from the backroad
fireworks cracked the lush
we sank into it
mossed-over carriage house
low swing of exhales
still he calls himself Creekmouth
call him
Atlanta Boy
call him
Right Here
call him
Wolf
his ear’s a nest
I go to it
see what others left behind
you don’t want to be
some nightingale
pushing cold steaks on that wound
left holding the bone
when the meat’s gone
but me I’m cockled rock
rough and gold leaf uncurling
woodworm eats
the corners off the globe
Right-Here Man
he’s not for long
his ideas they’re winding
my fingers
little worms
carving
at the air
Natalie Catasús is a Miami-born poet, essayist, and editor. Her writing has appeared in Jai-Alai Magazine, Denver Quarterly, Art Practical, and Sightlines, and her collection of poems, Flight, is forthcoming from Volumes Volumes in 2017. Her current projects explore the legacy of the Cuban balsero phenomenon. She lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area.