The Week Before Sandy
There’s a balding islet he says he’d like to swim to and never leave. I breathe into his eye, fog his sight, warn of bad weather. We lie on pizza boxes on the sand, the grease still warm. Your tears smell like pepperoni. Our stomachs keep repeating Pirate’s Plunge. The crest where he thought he saw god out in the parking lot, before the fall. I want to tell him god is here, in the moist hedge of his lashes, in the atoms of ancient clamshells that never blink free but tumble and dissolve in the eye’s ocean, making us into ballast, keeping us here, where we are, where we should never leave.
In our dream band, on the Ondes Martenot:
Eileen Frankel Tomarchio works as a librarian in a small New Jersey town. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in Passages North, Chestnut Review, The Forge, Okay Donkey, Pithead Chapel, X-R-A-Y, Longleaf Review, trampset, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from NYU Film. She tweets @eileentomarchio.