A foam washed wreckage to shore breath-bubbles pop in the thin light
Early beachcomber fights the gulls for a freshly delivered treasure
The minute before dawn you grab it’s back Carry it to your kitchen for a slow boil
With a crack, a glut of juices spill out Lips suck at the muscle and warm butter
An ear to the empty skin echoes the sea
What inspired you to write this?
a friend at my monthly poetry discussion groups asked
Well, I heard a line from some poem at an open mic. It went something like, he sucks the juices from your claws, eats the muscles from her claws…
I started to think about how the line could be used in a domestic violence poem about allowing another person to take your strongest parts, your claws, and devour them, you know, boil them for dinner
That sounds like a great poem!
Ya. It could have been, but I couldn’t get it to work.
The right words didn’t come
So, WHY is the sea in the empty skin and whose skin is it?
The sound of the sea is in all things born in the sea.
In this story, it is a song that sings the memory of the crab
Ten dollars an hour for twelve hours
—watch, stir, refill, stir again and watch.
My tool a large paddle punishes coconut clumps
Beats at them and their natural oil-tendency.
Tomorrow I’ll beat at raisins
Somebody’s gotta do it.
My day hovers at various levels of self-induced hypnosis
I’m on a lake of coconut directing my boat to stay still, hold still
do nothing but wait my turn to go down the cyclone
Leave the job to muscle memory
exit the body to float above the nation
visit the places and people of my imagination
I am someone else.
I am somewhere else.
A person who eats expensive granola
Meat cooks in water, bleeds out juice
Vegetables roll with the bubbles, lose their color
a slow boil
a long boil