Helter Skelter

The air rang like finest crystal,

and every bead of foam tossed

from the curling fist of every wave

became a prism, catching and reflecting 
every hue that danced and twirled across the earth.

Her hand and mine were tightly clasped, our fingers

engineered to interlace.

Our heels pressed perfect bowls into the sand

that filled with water where crustaceans paddled

playfully about. The ocean breeze and sun 
had signed a truce.

If you know me, you’re expecting her to ask

“What is that stench?” 
as we approach a lump of squelchy, blackened flesh,

long dead, its bulk collapsed upon itself.

Then you might think, “Oh, here’s his usual

repugnant metaphor. A secret

in this happy couple’s past, forecasting

their inevitable split.”

Or maybe you think, “This must be the

prelude to some awful act of carnage.

The calm before the storm, the lulling 
into complacency. This couple must end up

tortured, mutilated, violated, brutalized.”

The light fixtures of our motel room hang crooked 
beneath the weight of our swaying entrails.

A filthy couplet drips across the walls.

Are you surprised, then, to find that nothing happens,

that the beach is clean and empty,

that there’s not a single cloud in our blue sky?

Are you disappointed when I tell you we grow old together,

that the ocean of our love does not go dry?