By Adriana Beltrano
I’ll die in the Keys
during a hurricane
named Farrah or Claudette or perhaps Odell.
The storm will splay long-nailed fingers
and scatter the wind,
drawing waves toward the Sun.
Today, I’m wrapped in something white,
long, flowing; I’ve been heaved overboard.
There’s nothing waiting for me.
When I hit bottom, sand will bite my knees.
When I rise, light will sling across my shoulders,
sweat-clogged tendrils clinging to my neck.
The queen conch will return,
harbored in a yellow wooden shack.
I’ll decompose in the sun showers;
a pink dog will lie across my feet
as the devil beats his wife.
I’ll pick the scabs from its belly.
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Adriana Beltrano is a Floridian poet. She plans to pursue her MFA in poetry at the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars in the Fall. Her work can be found in Giallo Lit, Mythos Magazine, and Waves: an Undergraduate Journal.