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
remember
—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
making.
I want
love to dissolve into me
like the bones of a fish
small enough to take
whole.
I’ll fight
for the tongue I lost,
scrape both
hands through dead soil,
conjuring
olive or grape.
What at least
could live
alone,
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.