Sea brine, barnacles. Commingling fuel.
by Cheryl Snell
Just before the frenzy, seagulls wheel overhead
screeching like evangels. The off-season waits,
lake unrippled, hymeneal.
Marina men with gleaming torsos roll out on dolleys;
pools of grease ooze like violence beneath them. Their eyes
slide over me Their smelling-salt sweat makes me wonder
where their mouths have been.
Time thickens them, these men with tongues of dry ice.
Their sons stand in the rainbows of oil now. They watch me
cast off into my wild intentions They watch my wake
wag its wet tail.
The perfume of the sagging summer quivers the air.
Wood smoke rises like desire on the distant shore.
A diver leaps into the baptism below the liquid pulse
andI know it's too late to think second thoughts.