Ode to “Interstate 10” / BPB, Feb ’20

“Habeat Corpus,” they intoned of a single voice, lips clapped shut, and let slip the bonds anchoring that cooling body to its last reminiscences of dry land. It looked like an old mummy whose tomb they had plundered and, having found nothing of value remaining in that sandstone cathedral, whose body they had taken in a fit of pique, to deduct from it some depilatory charge and recoup to their accounts a measure of closure, if not of lucre. Once the waves closed over its form, too close in resemblance to that of each of the three droppers not to suggest an active sort of memento mori, only that patch of ocean water glared back at their curious brows, their tension-taut skin. But God’s good sense never deeded to the waters anything so terrible as language, and so ignorantly the involuntary pallbearers could turn from the fishing boat’s stern to its bow, and there set back off for the California coast, invisible now. 

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