the fetus beats eternal; the cage of a restless ova bursts into dimorphism, implanting the seed of all knowledge, truth and desire into the womb to emerge from the navel of the cosmos.
A sun glints grounded beach mica, shining in one step, disappearing at the next, unable to signify itself from a vista of churning sands, broken by the indentations of bare feet, cool and quiet, a restive from a meditation of rolling cold waves, trailing off to where horizon and sea are broken by the long beckoning finger of a getty.
This is twenty-two years ago: a New England town perched at the edge of the continent, where the land itself is a toppling of boulders formed from a long glacial sweep into victorious oblivion. The distant sweeping of a lighthouse beacons over the cold mystery of the shallow seas luring myth and magic, budding romance and allure, a matchmaker of eternity desirous to render memory into oblivion. How many beating hearts sealed their union on such a night, now no longer with us (the dead do not linger), shining, bright, eradicated in a flash, as sudden as a lighthouse beacon.
The rain had already fallen twice the previous night, broken at intervals by a shock of calm. A fleet of clouds had left the land and sailed onward east over the ocean, before a new flotilla arrived from the west soaking the town all over again. Unceasingly the sea sent a charge of waves to soak the shore and aerate the charged humid atmosphere. The stars burned through the clouds, a floral spray of pinpointed tears in the ink-wash of night. Some houses of Boar’s Head stayed dark, its residents having left the shores for the season to settle south in more agreeable climes.
Paul Maher Jr. 