Section 2 ~ Issue 22bMARC VINCENZ
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MARC VINCENZ                                            

Ivan Sinks into the Honeycomb


A 221fter all his yowls and cajoles,

Ivan has lost his chords

and sinks into the shallows,

into the impressions 

of mollusks and seasnails, 

hangs his head in his hands

as if he wants to hold on to it.

He knows what I think of him, 

the hoarder of things he once was, 

the hoarder of memories he has become. 

It’s too heavy, he mutters 

as if to the spinning minnows 

and the jellied eggs of crustaceans 

yet to become. 

And what of Tatjana, he mumbles 

scratching a face in the sand; 

the shadow of the wall 

now hovers over his skull 

like a hive burning alive in honeybees— 

as if I had answers, 

as if I might become 

soothsayer, groundbreaker 

(when all that’s left is you, 

you become everything or nothing). 

If only we’d always lived cut- 

off on an island, he spits, 

sinking into the honeycomb, 

drifting far away from me.

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