I drive to the gulf to outrun
his aura. The neurologist prescribed
little white pills I place under his tongue
to stop the seize. The ocean’s grey green
water is as still as a man before
he convulses. An aura comes as a breeze
and the line between this and that
is unclear. This buoy in the Gulf
of Mexico, that bird in the sky
of America, this wave laps the Gulf
of México, then breaks on the shores
of America. It’s always mattered
what we name a body when it’s whole,
in pieces we name each appendage.
A foam I’ve never seen collects
on the sand and I know I can’t go
for a swim. I want to move water
with magnets, clean it with charcoal
and a good net. There’s a woman whistling
on the beach. Her aura is bright and unforgiving.
She sings “America the Beautiful.”
She sings: From sea to every goddamn American sea.
I walk away but her song follows me,
carried on by some aura I can’t outrun.
The sky turns electrical—a zephyr lifts my hair.
You can’t help the epileptic once the seizure
starts. Turn them on their side and let it run.
Copyright © 2026 by Natalie Scenters-Zapico. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 21, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
