by Christian Stephens
Where did the oars come from a paddle boat or a galley? Who knows or cares.
I just like to smack ‘em on the water sometimes & scare away the fishes & maybe get a fleck
of that tasty algae bloom to land on my tongue roll it around tuck it back in the molars
with the liquified animal crackers & irremovable peanut butter.
If no one’s looking I might even dunk my head in gulp it all down slurp
my way to infinity fill my tummy up till my head’s turgid maybe fall in once or twice
maybe climb back out a couple rounds maybe slap the water a few times more, really get it
stirring, then fall back in & scream & swallow & scream & swallow & let all the little planktons
swim their way into a new abyss.
I’ll get tired eventually though.
I’ll resign to the military cruiser and walk onto drier shore.
But the pier always calls after me & I’m so thirsty & I hear the wailing bell of a trawler
ready to make its mark on the grand ol’ Pacific, its skipper bellowing a tune
so harsh & so sentimental I almost want to make my own ocean,
so I go back & get the oars & try to scrabble my way out there “Good morning, Captain!” I yell
after taking on water flapping my little wooden wings like an ornithopter drowning in heaven.
And the seadog turns, scowls, spits out cud