A girl washed up, the body of a girl, and we
set sail until oily in the sun, salt-whipped
hair heavy as ropes.
Dropping anchor, we dove into the sea.
Flecks suspended beneath the surface of an old mirror.
At the heart of that familiar dream
your claw-first body stalls,
destination stretching further away.
Aboard over dinner, we’ll only talk
about the warning given to tourists:
throw nothing overboard. How otherwise
a woman can spin anything, the heel
of a bone, into a skyboat, cast off.
Will drown if caught over the ocean when
the yolky sun splits against the horizon,
coracle turning back to a thin shard.
KEEP TO YOURSELF
Draw closed the seine over
aaaaaaaa silver dashes, sleek impulses, water slipping through
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa cupped hands.
aaaaaaa a What’s been lost
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa quietly resurrects in cursive letters, the hammock of
the lowercase r, the question mark an ear tuned
for the bolt’s slide from inside.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa Carve pages
from a book to put what matters between the covers. And sling
aaaaaaaa the rest in the t-shirt you’re wearing,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaa overflow of apples harvested for a pie
bulging out like zeros.
Some part prefers the dark, presses up in a locket,
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa would change in the telling.
from Placeholder, Charmaine Cadeau, Brick Books, 2013