in the summer of dying

Zoe Antoine-Paul

hope mocked me;
small white button tethered
to an old lycra suit—

thin, white thread;
tattered, gleamed
in the hot white sun

kept coming undone.

your hatchback spit gravel
in search of


where love was a lighthouse
in a foggy bay,
where I was a shipwreck,
where God was a glimmer in your eye,

and your fingers kneaded my skin holy.
divinity tasted of salt and seashell,

but the water was deceiving;
the stillness painted even your pearls
with the pallor of death,

and kept me breathing.

I am not a ship, I am smaller than that;

a sliver of a splinter,
on the farthest beach,

closest to the shoreline,
where even God can't reach.

Zoe Antoine-Paul is originally from the island of Saint Lucia, but calls Brooklyn home. She has previously published poetry in F(r)iction Magazine. When she is not writing, she can be found crunching numbers.

Issue 6.3

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