D.O.C. | by Lindsay D’Andrea

What is more inelegant
                            than anchovies
            on a salad,

lemon pressed
              to lips, teeth
                            laid bare in fear

              or maybe a handful
of olives thrown
                          to a mouth regardless
                          of their stones—

                                       I want
            to gnaw the ancient
roots of my name

             too perfumed
                                        to be real

—why July smells like
            a moment I can’t

—why I taste the sea
            before swimming it,

blood made half
                           of salt, whatever

               dreams green
                             and grounded, still
bitter or submerged,

hoping to drown inside
               a berth of my own

                          I want
             love to dissolve into me

like the bones of a fish

           small enough to take

I’ll fight
              for the tongue I lost,
                           scrape both

hands through dead soil,
                           olive or grape.

What at least
              could live
                          might grow

—each meal
             a ghost enamored
of the sea.



Lindsay D’Andrea is a Boston-based poet and writer. She holds a MFA from Iowa State University. She is a 2018 Best of the Net nominee and a 2018 summer scholarship recipient from the Fine Arts Work Center. Her work has been featured in many publications, print and online, including the Greensboro Review, Noble/Gas Quarterly, pamplemousse, and Longleaf Review. Find her on Twitter/Instagram @Lindszd.

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