Whenever her song from the first time
I rowed to where the horizon was as wide
as my despair, rises with bubbles that froth
the tips of the surf and lap the sides of my boat,
I feel like flinging my body beyond the luminous
fish that glide away from the light (such beauty
I know I will never possess) desperate
as her pleas, the promise of wholeness
beneath the waves that knot my tangled
lines in the roots of her hair. But the scent
from star-apple stormed valleys
that ache with the strain of desire
and cripple, like my love,
anchors me to that distant shore.
Graphic: Christina Philp
No comments:
Post a Comment