by Jeremy Hulatt
Take my dead
and root-like fingers
in your grip.
Drag my sour body through
the jungle’s wet dust.
Pull me by one arm
along the trails to Arrecifes.
Wrap me in muddy canvas.
Carry me on burro’s back,
in pieces if you must,
to where the morning smells of musk
and the sun bites down through fern and ivy.
Carry me to where the rocks
have pounded the mountainous shore –
where the sea is launched to thunder
and a white hiss of foam.
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Jeremy Hulatt received his B.A. from Old Dominion University with an emphasis in creative writing. His work has been published in The Virginian-Pilot and various literary magazines such as Blue Collar Review and here at Barely South Review. He currently holds a leadership position in the financial industry, and continues to hone the craft of poetry. He enjoys nature, playing guitar, practicing photography, woodwork, and spending time with family.