Poetry

Pangea

by Timea Pap

Uncovered tapes of
(what they believe to be) Frida’s voice.
Soulful, stirring, wide open —
the quiet chaos of the ocean.
I don’t care about Rivera’s affairs, nor does she.
Two things I can’t lose:
what was never mine and what belongs to me.
Storm clouds announced over the PA warn of rupture.
In the haze of thirty-thousand, I know I am to you
a blurred outline on a storefront window,
a flown-over island
never landed upon.
It’s all pangea.

Appeared in Issue Spring '21