Tiffanie Desmangles
In a pasture among the suckling calves,
a turquoise boat rests on fresh planks,
above the dead grass, so that one can see
below the waterline to a place rarely
touched by light and bleached a pale shade
of blue, imprinted with white waves
from days spent churning through the sea,
while the sun coaxed us further away…
To be born again as captain, holding
the rope in my hands. I am the sails.
I am the wind, full speed ahead.
The dream is rusting through the seams
of her hull, spattered in orange bullet holes,
while the threadbare calf looks through
me, milk-poor but dogged in his attempts
to get what he can from dry land.
Soon all will be swept into the artery
that moves everything, from lost pendants
to unclaimed bodies, out to sea,
so vast and accepting, with room
upon room for all the broken beauties.