by Valerie Duff
What are you afraid of? You’ll see her
gleaming from the cave, her stare,
stony, unreadable. By ear you navigate
your cruel way home, short of breath.
Walls along the crypts,
a chorus on the shore, spikes of glass
track the ridge. What is it in her words,
frozen grains opening melodically
like tiny grates. The nautilus.
Admit it: your grizzled eye
is pleased. You hoped for
salt flats, white beach, dead sleep,
the grotto where she’s not supposed to be.
You can’t have everything. The veins
in your arm swell, stoked
by wind, blue on the prow.
Do you know you’re angry?