By Marianne Boruch
The spell is a mouth’s
perilous-o as they dark circle the boats in
their most resplendent pliable armor.
The concept fish aligning with girl
or love with death
to bring down men at sea, temptation
confused into offering,
the mismatch of like plus unlike
really likes, straight to rock bottom.
No equation has ever been this badass.
It’s the men who will enter the spell
so far into exhaustion as weather, as waves,
the tide pulling toward if, letting go then
over the whale road in the company of
the dolphin, the only other animal, I’m told,
who can do it solely for pleasure. It.
You know what I mean. The lower half
aglitter, the top half brainy as beautiful
is sometimes, murderous lovelies, their plotting
and resolve and why not
get these guys good, the lechers.
To see at all in the whirling, to hear
what anyone might
in wind roar and faint whistle —
don’t worry about girls shrewd
as whimsy, legend-tough
to the core. Don’t. But it’s
their spell too, isn’t it? Locked there.
Aligned with singing, dazzle
razor-blackened green. Not that they
miss what human is like or know any end
to waters half born to, from where
they look up.
Men in boats, so sick of the journey.
Men gone stupid with blue,
with vast, with gazing over and away
the whole time until same to same-old to
now they’re mean. After that, small.
Out there, the expanse. In here,
the expanse. The men look down. Aching
misalignment — gorgeous
lure that hides its hook steely sweet
to o my god, little fool’s breath
triumphant, all the way under and am I