Beneath the Water
It was April in August
and the ship rocked on choppy waves.
They say everything you learn becomes a tool,
that an old spring brings a fresh fall.
After our week at sea, the ship has docked
in the final port and the orchestra has paused.
Sorrow needs no added strings.
Today I’m going fishing.
My upper and lower case
infuses sound in your visual space.
Tell me, “Did our limbs in double helix
seem like spiral shells to you, or phantom flesh?”
Tell me, tell me again,
what this wasn’t?
(The Litchfield Review)