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.