index_link index_link    Issue 3 Archives  Jennifer Weathers A
Poem, Composed While Living on the East Coast With the Atlantic
Ocean Like a Saucy Shubunkin, That Reminds Me of Living on the
West Coast with the Pacific Ocean Like a Wild Mackerel  Because
they taste like sex, those fish tacos and Coronas in longneck
bottles with lime, we ordered them often, eating on the slick
outdoor deck, while listening to the fog horn on the wharf of
Pier 39, where the seals gather to watch the tourists in Bermuda
shorts and linen shirts softened with spray from the docks where
the boats beat against each other in the swill. We drank a toast
to the homeless with their signs saying: we won’t lie, we need
money for beer. Honesty as refreshing as the salt water, as
tantalizing as the sound of traffic and faint mariachi music
singing me to sleep at night; the birds of paradise that filled
the vase in the dining room, and the air, like a hot towel from
the dryer, against my naked skin. This is nostalgia: the sandy
grit under my