Transatlantic

Whole sardines line the horizon,

shimmer like eyes after a hard cry.

I smear a silver bite on bread;

think miracles, loaves and fishes,

mouthfuls of ocean,

heaving waves, ways of knowing

the hands of a fishmonger,

a dash of Viking.

The tapestry is nearly done;

I complete it with a sailor's knot,

float it across the water,

add my name to the passenger list,

become next of kin,

drink a toast to St. Elmo's fire.

I let it steal my tongue;

swallow, and still find the taste of it. 

tk/December 2013


Sexy read by the dashing, bewhiskered R.A.D. Stainforth...is it my imagination...or is the boat rocking? 

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