David Melville lives in Oregon. For many years he earned his living as a lawyer. He recently left his law practice to dedicate more time to writing and other endeavors. Currently, he is at work on a novel, and has organized daily meditations during the pandemic. Several journals — such as Water-Stone Review, Atlanta Review, and RHINO — have featured his poems.His poetry has also been anthologized in the college textbook, Listening to Poetry: An Introduction for Readers and Writers (2019).
Gulf When I spoke of the heart, that raucous ocean that froths, heedless and repetitious as a drunk, open mouthed, pounding foam by the barrel, gathering to roar sloshed, mad-libbed secrets, more sound than sense, until the curl, the slump, the bubbled sigh . . . and when I babbled about palapas, islanders who rise with the sun to sweep the sands of fronds, I’d meant you as that turbulent water, me the palm-heaper, an island resident. But metaphors walk backwards. There you are, walking, sun browning your spine, fingers touching coconut husks, arms crooked, filled with fronds.