The cadaver plays peek-a-boo with a more beautiful version of himself. It’s okay, they’re both smiling. The seagulls are there. Doing dirty seagull things. Tummies full of rechargeable batteries. The seagulls are there, and the cadaver is having none of it. He just wants to paint his toenails. Yellow: the most memorable piece of debris. Reaching for the bottle buried in wet sand, his hand splits off. Drifts away, starts a family of its own. The cadaver rolls his eyes and his eyes roll out, drift away. Yet another family is formed. See, at one point, he was well-regarded in town for his mobile slushie business. Kiwi went viral! He followed it up with apricot. Not even the gulls would eat this, said one reviewer, even if near death the gulls were. After that, he took up competitive surfing. He gave up competitive surfing. More hopeful swallowing that drag-down and stay-there of a rip. More authentic hearing that cool boom of an entire ocean hauling what’s left behind. Isn’t it silly? The pinned flesh. The organic subassembly. He still thinks apricot wasn't that bad. That wild cherry could've been next. The cadaver opens his eye sockets. A seagull flies in. Another more beautiful version of himself slips out, takes an Uber to the Everglades, feels lonely, runs around.

` ` ` ` `
An earlier version of this poem was published in Issue 10 of The Arkansas International.