becalmed

* Content Warning: this poem touches on physical/emotional abuse* ~ “dabble, dabble roiling to rabble toes in the water bow lips babble” smirking … nonsense danced out of her mouth and onto the soft swells legs dangling from the tuna stand as the tops of her indigo-painted piggies splashed away the stars kicking left … right Cassiopeia disappeared into phosphorescent turbidity ‘where it belongs’ she thought … a dark queen sent to her darker end … “hold him deep in vanity’s grip too cold a keep for blood to drip” this, she added notes to he WAS worth at least a song or her attempt, anyway after all it was her longest relationship and he HAD sung to her - many times … well … screamed, actually spitting his anger into her face but his swearing DID have a sing-songy lilt to it (‘had’ … she grinned to herself) and a specific, tho rather morbid, rhythm she could have danced to it but for the clawing grasp his bony digits usually had ‘round her throat … she gently stroked her neck and stretched her chin as if removing something then pretended to toss it to the waves moon glistening atop … “take your strangle now there you go choke to bind you to fathoms below” she smirked again thinking she should be writing her little verse down to remember to put on his … but wait … do they use tombstones for people lost at sea? she had perfected her story by now how the anchor rope had ‘broken free in a storm and wrapped itself ‘round his ankle’, though neither of them had noticed until it was too late - until he’d ‘thrown it over the side’ … well, it WAS true … in a way … the anchor was indeed wrapped around his ankle … she smirked again, and giggled remembering his eyes - as wide as she’d ever seen them - his shock at the deed - that his little punching bag could be so devious and vengeful … big, wide, white eyes disappearing into the inky abyss and she … just … smiling … “so cold those depths to freeze your bones now make your peace with Sir Davey Jones” oh, he was screaming anger his priority to the last but she didn’t hear the vile words this time all his vitriol turned to bubbles and rose to the surface bursting gently to nothingness (as his memory would) … most of the physical scars had healed but this was ONE wound she thought would never, ever close - the one nobody could see now … the sea - her true love - had brought her salvation at last and though she had expected to cry (there WAS love … once) all she felt was relief and the warm South Pacific breeze kissing her cheek as she kicked the stars away and sang … “no more the doll for your fierce ire that hatred burns ol’ Neptune’s fire” she gave him one last thought - his wide, astonished, angry eyes … their shiny whites getting smaller and smaller as he plunged the briny deep - reminding her of childhood and collecting limpets on the beach … at Popham. Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, January 11, 2024