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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
Copyright ©
Gregory Richard Barden
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