Making a poem
For Peter
Speaking to someone presumed lost
at sea is like this—hissing rain and creaking
oarlocks drowning the splash of a tossed
tin can tied to a cord; it sinks, shrinking
from my line of sight, and then the twine
pulls tight. I hope it’s you listening as I
move my mouth over the metal lip: a sign,
a sounding back, a roar, even a slight sigh
all I ask. Such childish devices, I think as I drift,
longing to talk with someone I miss—not the way
Odysseus spoke with his dead friends, bloody gift
given so they’d be strong enough to ache, and stay,
and tell him pale stories from beyond that rift—
this poem a toy telephone, salt stinging my face
as I float through something more, and less, than place.
8 comments:
Thank you for this poem today.
This is really wonderful.
great lori!
Good stuff.
Oh dear...sending me back to square one....it's good when a poem touches, right?...but this one is making me ache. That's good too, right?....*sigh*
Came back to reread: you're rowing toward formal! Ad I like it.
Came back to read: you're rowing toward formal! And I like it.
I'd love to send this to the families of seven fishermen lost off the south east coast of Ireland last month ...but without a single body recovered, it's just too painful for them now...
Post a Comment