Florida

...........If not for the morning frost, I wouldn’t have to sweep
dead lizards into the gutter. If I didn’t always misunderstand
……….an alligator’s grin, I wouldn’t dare search emerald swamps
without a stick. And if Ponce de Leon had learned the same,
……….boiled body covered in gadfly welts and mosquito hickeys,
he wouldn’t have wandered far from Fort Augustine, crept
……….and crawled his way to the Miami’s brackish mouth.
What a bunch of tricky bastards the lost tribe turned out
……….to be, hiding that damn fountain. We continue, tracing
his steps over heat-blurred asphalt and pavement, stopping
……….only to ogle your beautiful Cuban neighbor, color of redwood,
sprawled topless on Brazilian grass as her moon-silent child
……….pelts pelicans with oranges, his rage grunting in the wind?
We never do find that tribe. But if we ever get the chance,
……….I’m sure they’ll be thrilled with our lack of direction.

*Brian Patrick Heston is presently in the MFA program at George Mason University and also received a Master’s in English and Poetry from the University of New Hampshire. His work has appeared in Confrontation, Slipstream, and Cake Train, among others. He was also a finalist in Walrus Magazine’s Fiction Contest where he was awarded a fellowship to attend the Summer Literary Seminars in Saint Petersburg Russia.