Plunder
The heart, which often seems a
gangplank
teethed from its deck, lifts on the wavebreak
before sinking in the valley of dark waters.
How is it the eye squeezes slack or drinks
lavishly from the sea, an apparition below?
My kind is so full of shit our eyes grow dim,
brown their way through lies & then regret,
a dirt, a speck, a spark or spur, an ember.
For those washed to sea, the crabs feed first
on the eyes, then the loose flesh of a cheek
while the shark has its say in the undertow.
Should he circle low, the heart is already
a bleached stone, sockets, temporary home
for the small to mistake as a balanced shell.
-Michael Robins
About the Author
Michael Robins is the author of The Next Settlement, which was selected for the Vassar Miller Prize and will be published in April. He lives in Chicago.
