Monday, October 8, 2012

What Poems May Come

The orcas were all dead
stomachs vomited out
lying exposed on the rocks.

But it was ok, the children
informed me, it was Tuesday,
these things happen on Tuesdays;
tomorrow will be Wednesday,
then I’ll see—everything
will be back to normal.

I dismissed my class,
reclined back in a barnacle bed,
draped bulb-kelp over myself
prepared for a nap. A purple crab
scuttled out from under the covers,
found another purple crab, and the two
scuttled off together. Two beautiful friends
who decided to cameo in this dream
told me they understood,

it had been a hard day, but
I had done something real good,
purple crabs are rare, and don’t often mate.
This was a special day.

I looked at them, confused by their presence,
decided that this would make better sense
after sleep. I awoke under a flannel comforter,
concluded that even crustacean love
is nothing but mystery, also,
I should not eat curry so close to bedtime.

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