Opening Tercet for a Back Country Villanelle

My leather heart paper weight, 

two repeating rhymes chambered

in a wilderness on fire.

[LSS, 9/18/23]

Fire Finder

Ash falling on our faces, 

smears of asemic verse 

Emily Dickinson could have deciphered 

without ever having to climb 

this fire tower.

[LSS, 9/18/23]

Suspended Animation Redux

once upon a time I swam in the green Gulf of Mexico
until I viewed drone footage of schools of hammerheads
placid in the single fathom depth of the water
immediately offshore from the SPF 50 beach
and the sound between the islands

I told you it was safe to go back home
waving that narwhal tusk like a lightsaber
taking black and white photos of orcas
‘discovering’ smooth pebbles inscribed with your initials
laughing, saying this one has my name on it

our charismatic marine fauna fades into
two-dimensional pen and ink sketches
the least favorite art teacher is not impressed
we go on relentlessly, ignoring the self-critiques
placing that centerpiece off center

[RK/9/17/23]

Suspended Animation

I’m still here patiently waiting beneath last year’s sea ice
treading water, pushing Greenland sharks away with my left foot
you would think I would be thinking about oxygen, aqualungs
holes in the ice with a lean polar bear perched to pounce
I admit that used to worry me

now I’m suspended between Edvard Munch and a midnight sun
between M.C. Escher and bioluminescent dinoflagellates
drawing nourishment from glacier water and art school critiques
wondering if triangular canvases mimic the act of sex
between two consenting sources of light

I’ve learned to use narwhal tusks as writing and drawing implements
fastidiously mimicking the scars on the flanks of sea creatures
waving my arms like a child’s top, splashing cuttlefish calligraphy
on the unsuspecting undersides of connubial water craft
waiting for someone to call me home, telling me it is now safe

the appointment book now a clot of salt-damaged paper and ink
social media is a dream from the past, dial-up a comic’s punchline
postcards, letters, text messages, I’ll even try new-age psychic beams
an octopus with three hearts and a relatively short lifespan
until eventually, just floating like flotsam, unrecognizable

[RK, 9/17/23]

 

Emergency Room

my hands smell of onions
my hands are stained with turmeric root

the EMT withholds the first aid kit
tsk-tsks at my lack of deep tendon reflex

salt crystal needle and seaweed thread are not enough
sewing basket and nylon fishing line are not enough

once you used a spatula in place of a scalpel
now a cuttlefish bone disguised as a mango pit

cuts holes in our pockets
takes responsibility for the timeline gaps

the past is a fishhook piercing the soft skin
between thumb and forefinger

the attending physician is about to go off her shift
she is only mildly interested

she asks if it hurts
what a dumb question I think

with no room for doubt, she says
it hurts

[RK, 9/17/23]