March 1, 2007
Mar 1, 2007
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.
While we have you...
...we need your help. You might have noticed the absence of paywalls at Boston Review. We are committed to staying free for all our readers. Now we are going one step further to become completely ad-free. This means you will always be able to read us without roadblocks or barriers to entry. It also means that we count on you, our readers, for support. If you like what you read here, help us keep it free for everyone by making a donation. No amount is too small. You will be helping us cultivate a public sphere that honors pluralism of thought for a diverse and discerning public.
March 01, 2007