I guess you used to come down here
to get away from it all,
you and Betty Boop and the Ace of Hearts,
the horseshoe and Hello Sailor
inked with the anchor.
In the dry season
all the birds
have orange mohawks
and the Great Atlantic Sargassum Belt
stretches from the Yucatan Peninsula
to Cocoa Beach, Florida.
I still don’t understand cricket
and that bit about fast bowlers cutting the toes
of their shoes.
The landscape is too vivid a character.
I promised certain parties
that I wouldn’t be writing
about my heart
but all the girls
are named Queency
and Row
and Lorena
and Cedella.
Lurching to get right with the Lord
I grip the moon’s thigh and hold on for dear life.
Did you leave with the pirates in the fuck me pumps—
I have flares and polos and northern soul.
I’ll be frank, I hate the sun.
Damon Hubbs’s work has appeared in Hobart Pulp, Bullshit Lit, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bruiser Magazine, Spectra Poets, and Farewell Transmission. He is the author of the poetry collection Venus at the Arms Fair. He serves as an editor at Blood+Honey.