Like a rowboat with only one paddle, it’s a metaphor. It’s also unpleasant and difficult to drive. Backwards, of course. In circles that lead to forests where men, among other creatures, often bear themselves away to cry. Important, this show of water. Important because the boat is always just left of the hill’s crest; because tomorrow is something we talk about while spilling beans from a split can. In any migration, there’s always someone who’d rather stay. There’s refuge and refuse and speeches hanging on like radio crackle; hollow as a playground barrel. They’ll never stop fighting, you know, though their armistice is sea and scene swaddled; some impossible whale. Something you should know: a bullet hole. No, not just that. Maybe wounds like fog: there, out of reach. Have I told you about tomorrow? It’s a collapsed lung, so pneumothorax. Yes, the most breathtaking things always have the thickest armor.
Copyright © Matthew Minicucci
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.