You
don’t know that my ribs are a cemetery, that
sea shells rest here and sound like death when you listen.
i tried to tell you that the ocean comes to die here
that there’s no infinity no we’re so deep the pressure
could fold our bodies – look
you can see its heart through its skin
isn’t that something?
there’s the sound of your cigarette burning, a faint
crumpling of paper at a grave and you’re saying
i loved you once – and i thought there’s some beauty
in that before the tide came in and turned my bones
to sewing pins – some beauty.
You
used your oars as a shovel without realizing that
was shameful. that, “digging up the dead” is not thinking
we’re destined to sink here, tangled. I tried to
speak through soil to tell you yes that touch
is electric – your hands belong to living and
oh – there’s the sound of an anchor scraping.
there’s some beauty in that – some beauty.
Moonfreckled 