Judith Borenin has been published in The Raven Chronicles:Last Call, The Floating Bridge Press Review IV, Ethel Zine 3 among other journals and have a mini-poetry book coming this summer. I have been writing poetry since being thrust upon a convent in Australia when I was in the fourth grade. I survived the Great Alaska Quake of ’64. I’ve moved so many times I have a continual ringing in my ears.
Beneath A Sea Tightly Wrapped
Bottle green low tide. Kelp
and seaweed curl wide rusty
tendrils around shipwrecked
piling stumps. They undulate –
impaled in place – arranging
themselves into changing shapes
of wild finned fish swimming
beside half buried sarcophagi –
cracked sides split – spilling
limbs and loose strands of
streaming hair in the singing
current as it gently shifts with
little ripples towards the sun.
Carapace almost camouflaged –
a crab clings to a barnacle poxed
piling – its stained ivory pincer
blindly taps its way an inch
above the water line as it climbs
then disappears. In the slight breeze
a whiff of sliced watermelon washes
in with the incoming tide. A blue
cellophane sheen sheets the glistening
sea obscuring the unravelings below
where schools of illusions glide.
Slow Turns On A Shaft
How mutely they fly – shrieks
astonished in their throats – silenced
by the splayed wind’s hand pressed
over unblinking eyes.
Some drift like wet clothes pinned
to wind limbs – wings hinged –
hung out to dry.
Some – wings opal blades – levitate
and twirl parsing
the rind of grey sky.
Veins still whistling with grief –
astonished as I watch –
how these slow seamless turnings
sculpted with graceful
strokes carve out dimensions of loss.