THE LAST EXPEDITION
When you settled in the soft silt
of the bottom
you were on your back
looking up through the wavering
water toward the light
and something happened
to your eyes: they grew
solid as the river
stones that line the bank.
Damn, you said,
when we pulled you
dripping from the water,
I can’t see. I can’t
see at all.
We laid you on the nubbled
deck of the pontoon,
your sodden clothing
wrapping you so tight
your nipples
pushed like fat thorns
through your shirt
and you kept saying
in a calm voice:
I’m blind. I’m completely
blind. We did not
notice the gill-slits
until later
when you began
convulsing on the deck
the thorns grown
into fins
your body one long
muscle as you
flexed and writhed
until you shook
yourself into the green
current and were
gone.
—from Rattle #40, Summer 2013
__________
Michael Bazzett: “I write poems because I’m curious about where they’re going to go.” (web)
