Last summer I visited my father. He hides his worry better than anyone I know. A stubborn skin that refuses to peel its layers, convey the daunting of it all. The length between home and shoreline. The precious soil sloughed of its greenery, like the skin off of a moccasin. On the North fork, the harbor seals seem to vanish more and more. As the horizon loses its shine and the atmosphere is an iron lung clotting the arteries of the cloud’s anatomy drowning above. The fresh dew once dripping from the conifers / the plum grass once sprawled upon a warren of beach dunes / the lush holler entrenched in the sunken forests / the gulf stream of colorful creatures returning the fruits of summertime — all morphed into fading memories. All we have left is the sunrise
and that too might fade
J.B. Stone is a neurodivergent/autistic slam poet, writer and reviewer residing in Buffalo, NY. He is the author of A Place Between Expired Dreams And Renewed Nightmares (Ghost City Press 2018) and INHUMAN ELEGIES (Ghost City Press 2020). He is also the Editor-In-Chief/Reviews Editor at Variety Pack. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Moon Park Review, Frontier Poetry, Atticus Review, [PANK], Empty Mirror, Peach Mag, Five :2: One Magazine and elsewhere. You can check out more of his work at jaredbenjaminstone.com and his twitter at @JB_StoneTruth.