Hi ho,

Yellow poppy, candle on the sea,
I am here catching your light on a sigh
to see you rocking, a candle, the window,
are you sleeping on your belly of waves
scanning pages of love creaking port side beams,
or wide eyed with shocks, starboard knocks
in salty wood stretched to the seams?

Pirate Girl, sticky fingers of palm sugar rum,
licked; eyes bright awake from loving
sweet, toffee, apple, frights; things that go bang!
Cannons – I could write of your tanned skin,
the stud on your tongue, your hi ho rings,
things which bite, of all of your might,
and on pouting lips, always a question.

She dives like Geena Davis

She dives deep for pearls, shells,
anything - in warm water she is ancient
and always comes up with her knife
between her teeth, like
Geena Davis in those freezing scenes
on a waterwheel, except
she has a conch in one hand, an oyster
in the other, reaching up to you there, set
above the waist of the ocean, leaning over the deck,
smiling, whereas Geena Davis
came out of the water all guns blazing,
blew the killer away. She's diving again
and it's incompletely silent all of a sudden,
unlike the struggling scenes of twisted bubbles and blood
as Geena pulled on the ropes at her wrists;
it's still, you standing there, a pearl and conch
in your hands, waiting for her to surface,
and when she does, no knife between her teeth,
was it to tell you she loved you first?

Grace

There is no mercy, caritas, or thanks
In the everyday moments of a greedy life.
We would have to look for it
On a plate before we eat,
In the flesh of a tender fish,
In a fresh bread of wheat,
And afterwards, in a moment
Captured, well after the blessings given
For the honest way
Or the elegant way
We attempted to floss our teeth