Reunion at the Devil's Shoal
Reunion at the Devil's Shoal  reunion stories
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limhkayes
limhkayes https://soundcloud.com/kimi-haodha
Autoplay OFF   •   9 months ago
Unnatural, they called it, the love they have for me.
No. Unnatural was the devil’s shoal, that freezing beach at Normandy, where I was shot dead for him to see.

Reunion at the Devil's Shoal

The woman I loved held me close

while the man I loved drove us down to Oaxaca, Mexico

and we were listening to the news on the radio.

"The disgraced vet fled Arlington Cemetery,

after defiling our war dead,

brought home from Normandy's shore

and his grave is now empty

to the horror of God and Nation."

I felt so cold

even nestled under her chin,

while he rubbed my knee

reaching over the driver's seat.

Their sweet faces were lit by the glow of our car's headlights in front

and unyielding high-beams behind us.

Unnatural love, the radio said,

about the living vet

and his beloved dead.

My boyfriend winced and

reached for she who held his hand

like it was made of platinum

and he held hers like it was forgotten gold,

but I was their cave of ice cold diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.

Unnatural, they called it.

Necklaces that shine under the chins of

empresses and baronesses

are unnatural,

and gold metals pinned on broken bodies

do not grow on trees.

Unnatural, they called it,

the love they have for me.

No.

Unnatural was the devil's shoal,

that freezing beach at Normandy,

where I was shot dead for him to see.

We'll be in Mexico soon,

he assures us with fear on his lips and

stammers out,

defiant of disgust and judgement,

that there's nothing they can do

once we're over the border.

She tells me that the beach where we're going

is warm

and the waters blue.

The people, he says,

are beautiful

and the fruit is so fresh

it burns your tongue.

Just a few more miles, they both assure themselves,

their hands were clasped together on my knee

white knuckled in the intensifying headlights behind us.

If we three are unnatural

then let all be factory manufactured

and as plastic as their tired smiles

when the border agent asks too many questions.

For to me, this love is as real

as our tears and laughs

when the radio stopped hissing the judgements of American news

and began singing Pedro Infante's 'Esta Noche'.

All went dark behind us on the road to Oaxaca,

with purple skies on the horizon

promising the warmth of blue beaches ahead.

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