posted on: Thursday March 25, 2010
Blake Bergeron ’11/Portfolio Staff
By the bay lives a woman who speaks like a whale,
bending sodden sighs into the purpling light
each infinite, free from the ballast of diction.
Her children always finish their dinner and polish their
plates in the sandy garden, never asking
where their father is, has been, or is going.
They kiss the stars and reflect each other’s eyes in old
spoons, pointing to the sea for blues, to the wet sand
for browns, to the mossy door for greens.
I met them once –
walking along the shore in a stupor I came upon them,
pacing in the sand patient as cows chewing their
cud of seaweed, salt and imported barley.
I asked them, “Can you show me the road? I just need to get to the road.”
They went on chewing and stirring the sand with their hands.
Hungry and angry and sore without shoes I sat in the sand
and rang out the soggy rag of myself. I balled some seaweed
in my mouth and began to chew. Out in the water
I could see seagulls floating over the bubbling fish.
For awhile I slept.