Sunday, July 26, 2009

The Afterward

Pulsing a tide against shore

foaming water, mouths, the mad doll-eyes of gulls

their ecstatic croaks.           

The wind rims deserts in my eyes.

I used to be afraid of dying here.

 

Where do you go?

A slippery swimmer exploring

seas too deep for him to fathom;

a shore bruised

by the hips of the waves;

He was— we were— looking for treasure here.

 

I see the dazzling rainbow of gray

I smell salt; I smell laundry detergent.

Your mother is on the bed stand;

my mouth devolves into a whirlpool

of a grin.

 

afterwards I am nothing but the neck

encircled by a necklace made of thistles,

of goose down, of fingers, of glass.

afterwards I am nothing but half woman,

half fish, sexless

flopping dyingly about each whim of every wave;

we descend into the still of blooming tide pools,

stagnant waters. 

(2009)

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