stare: at this gill-lessness, which
may account for such gall.
She sinks among the former century’s
tailings: algae, gigabytes, and
the mentholated breath.
She’d been the sort of gift that took
more than it gave. Surely the river
will never cough her up.
I Too Sip from the Flask
The osprey pecks a bit of blue plastic
into her nest of sticks. My brothers, barefoot,
stand in the cold brook
where the dogs are drinking.
We could drive into town. Someone
would sell us near-beer.
Someone would feed us waffles.
The boys argue, ankle-deep in muck.
When she shakes them out,
the fat bird’s wings make the sound of sheets
snapping in a gale. She hates us.
She spits down fish bones.
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