Written by Jennifer Wise
Shoving through the cracks, growling at nothing,
It’s a herd of rabid cattle
Encasing my waist like a girdle made of metal.
The hull has surrendered and such muscular arrogance
Is taking advantage.
Anyway, the nails have always been slippery and thin.
Soon they’ll tremble out
And slice into the sea; hundreds of tiny missiles abandoning ship.
If the water was warm, I should feel guilty.
If my foot wasn’t bolted to the floor,
I’d be anxious, burning my palms
On rope that knows its limits,
Confirming that the sky really is that blue.
The salt dries like drool on the dark wood.
Text © Jennifer Wise
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