this pebble sits ordinary in isla verde,
nudged slow by waves,
eroding into sand.
if instead i had found this elsewhere.
the surface would’ve been
of a distinct weathering,
from constant friction
with a slingshot leather.
the fiddler crab concurs
that the mangrove is an anarchist,
perfect in its defiance
from that liminal place
between the land and the sea:
trunks bent close to the ground,
roots interlocked like arms in protest
in this creeping war against the tides.
when the sea appears to be winning,
a million middle fingers
shoots through mud,
giving more life in time.
this is an interpretation of mark leidner’s tweet: exes fucking each other like shrapnel trying to rebecome a bomb.