March 17, 2024
Audio
Beached, a Beacon
By Genevieve Arlie
Beached, a Beacon
By Genevieve Arlie
Only reciting it back to me, another’s
words, could you say it, but you said it
twice. If you let me, I’d declare myself
loud as the fireworks we set off over the lake
that summer evening with a lighter
we couldn’t back our thumbs off of fast
enough not to blister, everyone diving
for cover and whooping, fountains
and palm trees and dahlias
exploding as if over Disneyland castle far
off in our native West you carry
in your desert heart. In the sub-
tropical dark mode of heat
lightning strobing in the hills, we
sat alone shoulder to shoulder
out of the storm, spray rising
on the wind under the awning
of the docked boat driving which
earlier you had never looked
happier, your desire
to steer in hand, and I was euphoric
in the water, my anti-gravity
limbs buoyant as moon-
bounce, bird and fish, and each
time I turned away before every brighter
bolt, the more you reveled in
the witness. Thunderheads urged the horizon
like a herd of pearly horses
rearing in terror or
destiny, each a burning
illumination. Something holds us
back. Don’t send up a flare just yet.
Images of Genevieve Arlie’s poem, “Beached, a Beacon”
Genevieve Arlie
Genevieve Arlie (they/she) is a genderfluid Mestize Californian with hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. A nominee for Best of the Net and a finalist for the Disquiet Literary Prize, they have received graduate fellowships from Columbia, Iowa, and the University of Georgia, where they’re now a PhD candidate in English–creative writing. Their work appears in Passages North, EcoTheo Review, Tupelo Quarterly, the Poetry Foundation archive, and elsewhere.
Image description: Outside on their porch, a White-passing femme with curly brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a big nose wearing a white collared shirt and dusty-rose jean jacket with burgundy lacing tips their beige fedora at the camera.