Read more poems by Debora Greger: Debora Greger Poems at Poetry X.
limestone, with traces of polychrony, c. 1250 Point Dume was the point, he said, but we never came close, no matter how far we walked the shale broken from California. Someone's garden had slipped, hanging itself by a vine from the cliffs of some new Babylon past Malibu. Drowning the words, the wind didn't fling back in our faces, the Pacific washed up a shell: around an alabastron of salt water for the dead, seaweed rustled its papers, drying them out, until it died. Waves kept crashing into the heart of each shell I held to my ear like a phone, but they were just the waves of my blood. And through it all I heard him say, how could it be nine months ago his grandson had taken his own life, somewhere back east? He was fifteen. O Pacific, what good is our grief? Something screamed at the sandy child who poured seawater into a hole. Child, you'll never empty the ocean, Augustine said. How can I believe? The wet fist of a wave dissolved in sand. Like a saint, a seagull flapped down the beach in search of something raw—an angel with an empty pail? No, a teenage boy, hands big as a man's, held a sea slug quaking like an aspic. Under a rock, another drew into its body a creature larger than itself. Live, said Death, to child and childless alike, indifferently. I am coming. Anonymous submission.
Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 22 May 2013 11:54 AM | Viewed: 3829 times