Tuesday, November 30, 2004

draft

Dew Screw Yourself

Spread-heart he circles the slimy
pond, fantasizing it’s a
river of impluse.
He doesn’t look
directly at the pond, he gazes
towards the sky.
He doesn’t touch the pond,
his hands pocket firm.

Like all fantasies,
it’s a false exercise
when pupils are invoked.
It’s a pond and its never
anything more.
On hot days the
mosquitoes and flies do their best
to infect nearby mammals with Lyme disease.
It’s smelly too.

It’s clear to all, even the sunfish,
which he refuses to eat,
how parched he is.
How invisible and petrified
his once winsome mouth became.
The insects prefer to wait
until he’s dead.
It’s just easier that way.
How he refuses to sip,
how it’s only a matter of dim
moons before he perishes.
All because he thinks he can’t love
algae. He wants to skip
the single cells and leap right
into the ocean.
He hasn’t bothered
to read the brochures.
He doesn’t know the first thing about
seaweed which he sentimentally
calls mermaid hair.
He doesn’t realize salt stings,
waves smash,
dolphins mount more than ankles.

2 Comments:

At 2:31 PM, Blogger Rachel said...

I think my favorite lines of this are:

He hasn’t bothered
to read the brochures.
He doesn’t know the first thing about
seaweed which he sentimentally
calls mermaid hair.
He doesn’t realize salt stings
-- there's a kind of cranky whimsy at work here that really tickles me.

I'm a new reader of your blog, btw; found my way here via No Tell Motel, where I'm digging Peg Duthie's poems a lot.

 
At 9:56 PM, Blogger Reb said...

Rachel, nice to hear from you. I don't think I've talked to you in years -- possibly since you graduated.

 

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