View From the Oceanview Motel



You polished the orange’s

dimpled skin on my navel,

peeled it with hungover

fingers, trying to cool

down. We sit on the balcony

on stolen lawn chairs. Flicking

the peels into the landfill

fire. That’s burned all

summer. Maybe this is natural,

everything just combust

like this, too many layers of unwanted

things: cereal boxes, dryers, mattresses,

used wedding dresses, air conditioners, rotting

fruit, entire glaciers of condoms. Maybe

I can blame this on you pouring jet fuel

martinis off the balcony, that’d be good

there’d be a reason. Because all I know now is

this is getting too hot we are always

sweating, we have no more

clothing to shed, we are bored with each other-

's skins and we don’t care who sees

us now, as we sit on the balcony

peeling oranges with salted fingers,

trying to give the fire a scent beyond

burning garbage.



Joshua McGarry hails from Germany and is currently working on his MFA at Old Dominion University. He lives in Norfolk where he writes and collects records with what some have described as "excessive enthusiasm." He has a poem out with Ekphrastic Review and three more of his poems will be in the forthcoming issue of DoveTales.