by Edison Angelbello
There is a joke I tell (with varied reactions) when asked about home. I’ll now reshape it as a poem. The highest peak in South Florida is a landfill they’ve repurposed as a park. And I’m not sure what they fed the land to make it smell of itself again— like goosegrass and dollarweed hacked with a mower damp beneath our blanket— but it worked. And you wouldn’t know our present picnic sits atop the bones and bones of thousands of past (even prehistoric) picnics in which maple-eyed children picked at their sandwiches and left lettuce trapped in matchweed for the rats who later found themselves caught in hairy tufts around the mouth of a neighborhood cat—which, later, while no one looked on, left itself for the vultures, their circling whirlwind the winding and winding of life toward death or death toward life. Perhaps, on this blanket, we haven’t yet decided. And I think how playfully we practice death, making life from it like clay—how yesterday or before we made love between two broken down lives and after wine and confidence summering in shared breaths, you said: yes I’d like to live forever and we each plopped grapes into our gumball mouths and decided to let this earth reuse us as many times as it wishes.
Edison Angelbello is a poet and filmmaker from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. His work has been published in Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine and Atlantis. He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina and studies in the MFA program at Columbia University. His work explores, among other things, mortality, memory, and community.