WINTER VACATION AT PUNTA CANA


Into the sea
                     all visible land slides
slips its lenience
                              like the effortless magazine of life.
It is an empirical decline
                                  that would belie the enormity
of its effort, as each new wave
                                           hedges everything against itself, so
we do not grasp it,
                              the brute reality which we must.
The scene of the crash
                                          must not be divorced from
what means of grasping we have:
                                                               hands
                                                               toes
                                                               jaw
                                                               clamp
                                                               desk
                                                               the bulk which
sometimes, by mere effect of
                                                the body’s directionality and nerve, comes to know
the legion beats of
                                  nature’s irregularity. It is not only
bonds of sea-song, then,
                                          that shift, do not break, with us, but also
the statistics of
                              corporate retreat
                              passive-aggression, “the notion” made
                              up so stress-free we the majority have not thought to
                              not want it—    as for 
our compulsion, stomachs
                                           shoved into placid shapes, squeezed aside into
intercostal aisles, spreading flat like
                                                       Biwa stick beads into
universal aesthetic and the so-called
                                                                   adventurous escapade
with its simultaneous production of longing,
                                                                              instantly bridged without
making across what native-to-foreign screens
                                                      would under certain
strenuous instances of the same sun be
                                                                     too hard to hide—

                                           as for these, they always defend
                                           what need they’d need/
                                                                                       rioting past
                            cerebral
                            interference
                            phone-
                            propelling
                            cabana
                            fan-girl glare
                                                      and as I point out to you
white squiggles mounting the sea-smashed rock
                                                                                          I already wish for us        
the irretrievability of our ever-remote insignificance


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Jennifer Soong thinks writing poetry is a bit like going around with a metal detector while looking for pearls. She lives in New Jersey, and her poems have most recently appeared in Berfrois, H_NGM_N, Prelude Magazine, DIAGRAM and more. She received her B.A. from Harvard University and is currently an English doctoral candidate at Princeton University. She is also the poetry editor at Nat. Brut.