Ark

Sirens

They call me into frenzied frequencies between a drive-by and a pledge drive: The hull’s torn open, we all go down. When the news is over, it’s over with. The voice of wishful thinking, a wet-mouthed nymph, rises in stereo. Abandoned to differences of air, I do the dead-man on the waves. If I had the choice, I would take it. Take the sky. Take the sea. What would I have? Lovers pressing body to body? Not exactly not at all. Take the boat on the horizon. It’s tacking in, it’s sailing away. It being the most immediate antecedent of the deceased, dear loved one I will not name—at least, not in this lifetime. At least, not at this moment when the radio’s off, and I’m tuning in to the white noise of a lacerated sea. Witness the waves against the rocks. They will not turn the volume down. Who is dying? What city burns? Only the sea, which doesn’t say, can say. sirens [ 6 ] ...