The HarborA Poem by DeanarrlackA stray from my usualThe Harbor
Not a head or a seed pod, the swans on black water heard it. The children arrange their booty of claws and burnt matches. And fragile hands collect themselves on chins and knee caps. The salt rush, taunts and mower engines, the coconut crack. The man who has sat for an hour, the effacement of the gulls. A jewelery maker sold me feathers, paste, and small pearls. 'Gifts, gifts!' Something productive; if it weren't for that retching. You drink the pearls, sweat toothed and tired. 'Easy as pills!'
The panic of train cars; we close together, a tight knuckled fist. And our eyes, clean cellophane, if it weren't for that awful glint. The still horizon of your quiet lips; How you pick your silences. Earlier, we had picked bridal crowns from the trees, like so many limp squid. You'll be betrothed by nine in the morning. Soon, you'll carry plates of pork and crisp bread, you'll vomit your pearls into his coffee in the morning; to sweeten the porridge. The baby will be so full of pearls, his diaper will be a thing of value.
A tumult of fists on water, the gray head of a porpoise, dumb cork. We'd fish the waters, covered in cod stink, your skirt hem in gut buckets. Once, dancing on a sea turtle, you felt the ocean was your play bucket. We sat cross legged then, ropes cross hatching our delicate thighs. The water was collected, and our boat flipped easy as drift wood. softly as mushrooms.We gripped the splinters with our hungry palms.
Delirious, a city of crabs; we spread to the sun, fanning our throats. Now, we're desert creatures, appalled with the ocean all together.
© 2010 DeanarrlackFeatured Review
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4 Reviews Added on April 24, 2010 Last Updated on April 24, 2010 AuthorDeanarrlackBrooklyn NY, NYAboutConfessional Writer. Future therapist/group therapist. (PhD) Portrait of NudityAug 26, 2007 - Sep 10, 2007Win Recognition Only! Portrait of TranquilityAug 27, 2007 - Sep 17, 2007Win Recogntiion Only.. more..Writing
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