Heidi Lynn Staples





when the ancient supercontinent of Pangaea
broke apart

warming the middle of my
                        SPF 30+ the smell of coconut
oil skin slick shining

                        skeins exposing blue and light

the breeze it is said through the breathing

I loved him like blowing up a float
till I was dizzy and my mouth
was a changing angle of sunlight.

rain may fall as an all day

a sudden thunderstorm downpour

Do you think you’ll ever take me back?
He was sixteen.  He had a climate considered tropical.
Because if you don’t, I’m going to marry Sonia.

fucking in the woods on the beach of a bayou.

as it did during the spring equinox.

on average, 46 tornadoes a year touch down

actually suffers more tornadoes

waterspouts—tornadoes that touch down over water
the water body temperature






mouths, for example, common and beautiful

lakes, slow-moving streams, woods.

when he entered me like the tip of the peninsula
            as the swiftly flowing current,
                                                the beginning

of the gulf stream, I whispered cup-like,

rose-pink flowers, leaves ovate
to heart-shaped, wavy-edged to him—
migrate downwind if they are not stabilized
by hardy vegetation, such as sea oats

that can withstand sea spray and burial by sand.

words developed between us, were moist
woods, roadsides, city lots.

a common spreadwing, damselfly.  abdomen long,
            blackish, with bluish-white tip, watched

wings transparent, short; held half open.  our





everyone said we had an overstory

of tall, widely spaced longleaf pines

we both came
            from highly fire-adapted families

plus many tropical vines and epiphytes.


on the sand under my mother's college blanket
we held to discover

& tidal swamps curiously welcomed us

his favorite part of my body

would be characteristic in wetlands

tomorrow had extended progressively
farther inland

to form the blanket of marine mud
spelling out our names into this new
                        life, building up

the "angle of repose," it is the slope

beyond which lovers will begin to tumble

not far from a clear, cloudless sight line to the sun.


translated into fishing sport.




Because of You


We have lost our balloons.  For e.g.,
you haven't cleaned the kitchen, as in wiped the counters, fridge,  
     and the stove, ever.
You fearfully do the laundry nor pay the bills.  
What scam of "I", your maid-to-order?  Your mad. Yours ruing,

You look up from your reading. I have nothing to wear, you say.
Joust ware what you heave bombs, I ricochet. You sorry sack of no
     soiree. Ay?! Ay?!
Your sitting there on the couch is infused with nothingness. 
It's for crying out loud.  It throes itself in duel, the opposite of dance. It  
     thinks straight from the cartoon.

OK, are you a task hole and your crotch a sport of inflatable crutch?
     Or are you a brimming brevity whole body a tremor off the fire's
     ever here in our living-room with the television on FOX
for fuck's sake? Yes! Yes! Yeah, we have lost our
way, our little one with her sweet fragile life of her own. At night
I sit up and listen for her breathing.