Bury Me in the Sky is a masterful mosaic of language where “the world slips under the waves” rendering the reader feral in a blazing landscape gripped by Comito’s iridescence and uncompromising brilliance. — Meg Tuite, author of Meet My Haze
All Drains Lead to the Sea
The iris in its exigency strives only
to flower. These things are of a marshy sort
and a far way from any Africa.
How did I think I could serve? This soil
is bereft, with only mocking water
below, so catacombed in chalk.
There have been people lately diving to chart
the aquifer. The support staff shadows above
ground, beacon squealing as those below veer in
and out of range, bushwhacking through
swales, through supermarkets,
knocking on residences.
Would they know, from a slow contrary course,
of the intrepid demise and follow to the output
– all drains lead to the sea – after losing one on the mic?
Here is only silt. Precambria stress testing the botany.
Florida Dreams of Peru
Kiln dried mummies, landscape of once were alpacas.
Now all the wool is farmed in Alva, whose town museum
opens one day a week. Also: it’s very warm here.
The llamas they use to guard the sheep. More
vicious than dogs, they say, and better insinuators
for their unwolvenness. They grind rather than
tear. The Calusa would be confounded!
Well how appropriate would it be to have camels
running around under the orange trees, humps
bumping all that Spanish fruit? Better to
leave blankets on the desertification,
those Nazca scars of ash; we have our epiphytic moss, but
really need less softening. There’s a picture of an eagle
soaring over Peru. Wingspan of my palm.
Everything concentric, windless.
Bury Me in the Sky
Hold tight to the dream
with the balled fists
of an infant. Prayer flags tatter
as bald griffons in search
of those things earth
loves to offer sky – life
that fed now feeds
and is carried as mudra.
Bring me those bones.
May you stoop to enter
a hundred mud-framed
doors greeted by the deep
wrinkles of a smiling Tibet,
the generous fat of a mother
yak melting into ever more
generous tea. If a lama is
laughing, it is in a far place
and China is just a tag
inside your dress and no one’s
yet said “Namaste.”
These peaks are mudra, earth,
all fault, sutures and boundary
thrust, growing bones
from the feet on up forever
giving birth to itself
on the roof of the world.
I was born a new infant
on the roof of your Empire
State, wine glass a disabused
vessel, spirit transmigrated,
your fists balled up, wrinkles
deepening, coloring like mud.
There’s no disinterring what
can never be buried. No soil.
Exposure the only work of time.
The dream does not climb,
can only be scuttled. If
this ship lands on any rocks,
it will be at 12,000 feet
where no water bubbles up.
Religion at the City Pier
Striking thing, about the baptism at the boat ramp,
how we had to wait with the skiff for the man to be
dunked under. Well, anywhere there’s water.
He was walking through, feeling life wasn’t going
anywhere – might as well head to the city pier, see
some brown water to slip under, unseen.
The minister was just there, doing baptisms, might
as well. The water of the river, tea from upward
oaks: tannins and muck and Jesus is everywhere.
The banks had been straightened, army corps of engineers
saving the generations from its snaking ways, spoiling
up islands in millennia of extinct horse teeth.
Some things get bigger over time, others shrink with the
evolution. Some just slip under the surface for finding.
We got our boat in, slept on the island, empty towers
lighting the distance, all foreclosed.
A personal Stonehenge
They accounted only for this day
when they built the house.
The other three sixty-four
they found themselves at odds:
every morning 1 missing shoe,
coffee spilled on the closet’s 1 tie
on the way to work.
1 threatening neighbor
3 failed pregnancies
and zero things to say
And if on any March twenty-nine,
they failed to stand in the kitchen
across a gulf of 13 years at
they would miss the shard
of hard, equatorial sun, which,
in its transit, laid bare their
And they often did.
This is the spot, one would say
I remember why, said the other
and four eyes, half blue,
half green, welled – “well”
and set about the task
of one more supper.
Originally from Massachusetts, Sara Comito lives in Fort Myers, Florida, where she and her husband have a small urban farm and work together in their natural stone masonry business. This is her first collection.
Copyright © 2020 Sara Comito
Cover photograph by Mike Kiniry
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
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