by Adriana Ugarte
Little Haw 
The stone who skips my shore is bored, 
gone shipwrecked on a shard of glass, 
unhinged by its singular ping! 
But an ample gust prompts flux, 
it descends into the blubbing mouth 
of pylodictis olivaris, who burps 
a bubble that swells in succession, 
converges & resumes again 
somewhere above the surface. 
Middle Haw 
what there is:
Torenia fournieri; wishbone flower, box opened to reveal yellow tongue
Gaillardia aristata; blanket flower, ovary envious of petal’s gradient 
Crinum americanum; swamp lily, seven sisters with tumid pistils 
what there isn’t: 
Anguilla rostrata; pencil eel, blind and empty-stomached, Sargasso-bound 
Athene cunicularia; burrowing owl, diurnal, eyes circumducting air 
Pleurobema pyriforme; oval pigtoe, opalescent innards visible via fissure 
what is broken:           what is hidden:                          what will never be:
 hipbone                       sock, stained                           sickle
window                        wrapper, sun-bleached           saw
                  shoelace                       lizard, de-composing             vertebrae
Old Haw 
Dear visitor,
How is it that you come to sound,
and wrap your lips around Sisyphus, or
sassafras sprouting wild beneath the door?
Water speaks commonly, yet,
we are seldom understood.