Distance for Sunday Scribblings

The boat rocks.
Birds fly around
eating the chum
my husband
put out.

We sit,
waiting for a tuna
to take our bait.
"I blind the mackerel,"
he says, "because

if they see a tuna
coming, they'll
try to avoid it."
I picture
that fish

doomed to swim
around and around,
go nowhere
and, now, can't
even see

the aqua bubbles,
the sun melting
through the water,
other fish,
and his death.

We are quiet.
"I wish you hadn't
told me that,"
I say through
the lump

in my throat.
He laughs.
I get up
but there is no
place to go.

I need to put distance
between us,
The sun blinds me.
I can't see how
to get away.


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3WW: Feel, Shade, Tangle

I know there is a poem
resting in the shade
of my brain.

I can feel its shadow
lurking just
out of sight.

It's an angry thing,
a monster,
waiting for the right

moment to lumber
awake, stomp the ground,
untangle itself

from the branches
of sweetness
I've so carefully

arranged around it.
I hear it grunting,
feel the vibrations

of its snort, smell
the stink of its truth.
I peer at it,

try to bring it into
focus, but it slinks away,
that cowardly lion

of resentment.
Not yet, not yet, it says
but soon.


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