I start to be broken, my body
skimming waves blood-red, 
deep as my ache, that fill

my brown skin, tattered. I’m an island. I’m a flute
left on an island, finger holes
smudged from practice

grasping my canvas that would leave salt
on my lips as the sea breeze blew,
and my ribs knocked

against the keel. I start to be broken
the moment you enter
the dark clouds, two tiny fists

shaking in the air—not that mother
or father would care. But isn’t it extravagant
to be a splinter

in the open blue, surrounded
by its freedom? Even while face-floating down,
you, Orpheus

with your flag shredded red around my joints,
still sing
of illusory shores.

David Capps

David Capps received a PhD in philosophy from University of Connecticut and an MFA in poetry from Southern Connecticut State University. Recently his poems have been featured in Peacock Journal, Cagibi, and The Nasiona. He lives in Hamden, CT with his luxurious Maine Coon.