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The pier (1 Viewer)


Friends of WF
Mussels crooning
waiting inside their clenched existence
for a flowering
in the darkness
where the giant squid waits

some nights I feel the faint brush
of the tentacle traversing the heel
of my right foot – is that the foot
by which I was held
dipped into the family’s gene pool
and sent then
into history?

The gaps terrified me.
The gaps between the planks.
The planks so worn by water and wind
that I must slip between.

Walking I hear the waves
trying to clutch and carry me down.

I feel the eyes of an unmet beloved –
if I look back will the future be lost?

At the end
hard against the rail, fingers
holding as if a shield against the water’s might,
watching the distant ocean;
hear how it calls to the sun,
jealous, eager to extinguish the light.
The sun bows low
and always escapes.

In the darkness walking back
I can see the tent lights in the distance
but between the planks
in the gaps of the unknown
I feel the giant squid’s tentacles…
If I stop
I will remain as if in a stone chair
and no one will rescue me.

The salt everywhere,
the foam a delight.
Old fishermen cut lines and bait
with knives sharper than history.

I have no patience,
should not venture out
on this strand of make-believe;
already I can feel the tentacles…

It is the unknown that haunts the child
and being a child
all is unknown.

Even now when I sense the pier,
hear the waves
or the tinkling of black mussel…
imagine deaths – a civil war of deaths
and loss – a Tsunami of loss
and catastrophe – a hurricane of catastrophe
and I am prepared for what comes;
that she leaves me
that the house is repossessed
that the job ends.

A known disaster
even if it has a thousand sprouting heads
is not as bad
as the unknown.