Three postcards, one for each.
Dispatches from the vague case of ocean fever
that I claimed when I dipped underground,
Out of their reach.
One cropped full of bikinied throngs
for the breathless, tractor-beaming Lothario
who wooed with absurd promises
and hot prose studded with “now” and "ache"
One, more reserved, of cactus-flower cliffs
for the ex-pat glacier-chaser
who filled a secret mailbox
with arctic trophies
and a lust recently paroled.
One just a photo of my feet in the sea
for the landlocked vet of an unnamed war
who drummed and gunned and Sturm und Drang me,
who held my mouth upside down and
shook loose change from my words,
who, oiling the hinge in the back of my neck,
inspired an aura of creative convulsion,
and whose hair inexplicably left sand in my sheets.
- S.M. Simões