East
From the mouth of hell, ground water flows into the
windswept ocean. A grove of coconut trees hedges the warm spring, but none walk
below them. The sweet spot is by the mouth of the inlet, where the sand churns
beneath the surface, and the fish are lost in the debris clouds. Sweeter in
memories past, this place is now lost for all time, beneath the flow of Kilauea.
The white noise, like crashing waves, or passing traffic on
the rural route, is deafening. They aren’t supposed to be here, the frogs. In
the viridian groves, they encroach but cannot be turned away. Shafts of light pierce
the clouds overhead, technicolor horizons in the late afternoon rainstorms. From
the antiquated living room, near the sliding door to the deck, a gecko carcass
rots. It’s covered in fire ants.
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