You can get a horse as soon
as you get a backhoe big
enough to bury it, Momma
told her. Likewise, she didn’t
have the smarts to bother
Down the pier a sailor smoked
and mended his net. Feeling her
stare, he pegged her for
lonely, took her out to sea.
Momma didn’t get a husband
til she had a big enough knife.
The net was big enough for this
new catch, but – Momma
will be missing me.
His face cracked with years
of salt like those sore, handknitted
knots. Swells made false islands
of horizon. Seven miles and you
lose the land, he says.
The distance she can’t
make sense of. It folds itself
into a wave she could ride
all the way back there and bury
everything. But she can’t
Is it big enough?
Sara Comito is a writer living in Fort Myers. Her…
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