We’ve established humans have had their hour and are on the wan it’s evident when stepping outside to grab some milk you see young men ransacking stores after marching hours in the dying sun marks of ozone holes in their eyes. The place I met you isn’t the same anymore they tore down where we lived, and built a tourist resort it blocks out the sea for the locals who work cleaning pools that reek of chlorine and cheap cocktails our bed was probably used for kindling, our sheets might still hold together boats, the wine we drank could have grown this very fig tree, your semen may still be spilt in earth I cannot recall the street name, or form words to describe how the sun set, its raging colors and curtseying beauty over our young arrogant skin I only know, we were then, more animal than human fucking without hour, no regard, growing swollen with the grind and lubrication of each other until I ripped myself apart and bore a child resembling neither of us and in that salty water my blood floated iron rich and fused to life, we made love before I’d healed and blocked out the world diving beneath waves so long it seemed breathing was optional. I only know, we were then, more animal than human leaving our short pasts behind, long limbed and light footed running the length of the island, calling it our own like we could ever possess anything but death like we could ever be more than dried footprints for someone to discover years hence a covenant, a posy, the fling of ruin our child long buried, the last of us to hear sea encroach and recede in one long breath night murmur of unseen birds, trilling in lusty trees and when the crabs came scuttling across black sand the very volcano breathed deep and belched its heart exposing a crater as wide as your smile where it was said a meteor had once crashed causing extinction and turning silica into glassy graveyard. A mosaic, you might be part of when the sixth extinction dips its pen into the ocean and algae blooms artificially bright at night, poisoning air and fungi swamps the land in relentless creamy march obliterating the last sign of us; our little beating red hearts surrounded in blue blood where your fossil will lie magical beneath a glass tree and you will sing the song of your parents more animal than human, fused in chalky bone one day become a cliff, rugged and sea-chaffed where wild moss creeps, unstoppable and in spring turns a strange lovely violet.
Photo by Mona Eendra on Unsplash
Born in Europe, Candice Louisa Daquin is of Sephardi French/ Egyptian descent. Daquin was the Publishing Director at the U.S. Embassy (London) before becoming a Psychotherapist. Daquin is Senior Editor at Indie Blu(e) Publishing, a feminist micro-press and Editorial Partner with Raw Earth Ink. She’s also Writer-in-Residence for Borderless Journal, Editor of Poetry & Art for The Pine Cone Review and Poetry Editor for Parcham Literary Magazine. Daquin’s own poetic work takes its form from the confessional women poets of the 20th century as well as queer authors writing from the 1950’s onward. Her career(s) teaching critical thinking and practicing as a psychotherapist have heavily influenced her writing. As a queer woman of mixed ethnicity and passionate feminist beliefs concerning equality, Daquin’s poetry is her body of evidence.
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