Arlene Ang

In the Hammock's Net

Cobalt velvets the sky. In the wind, palm trees shake their stiff olive feathers, the sound is frenetic. You remember your childhood, strangling the rattle with dirty fingers. Your mother's voice washes ashore, fresh as the spray of sea salt on your lips. How many times did she hush you? And you beat her face with fists, viscous from saliva and chocolate. Shark fins incorporate the dream. This is the stirring of latent desires. One of these days you will point that harpoon at a great white, discover the weapon has metamorphosed to a sunflower. Again and again you question the importance of size. Palm trees have violent natures. Coconuts fall, barely miss your head.
You're caught in the crocheted net of the hammock.

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