Rodney Wittwer


Your singular laugh sounded
like too many. Your split lips
practiced a kiss they won't
remember: the way lemons
score the board before &
after cutting. Tension puckers
any parting's core. Sometimes
you flash by mirrors: tangled
hair tide-parted & I remember
seaweed, the salt of lasting,
the briny blast of love mid-air.


"Isn't, Isn't Here" takes place at the junction of desire, despair, memory, separation & loss. Apparently, this occurs on a beach at the tideline. Water meeting land pretty much covers everything for me.