conversations with imaginary sisters, dwindling, ghost shark, gulf of mexico, Lake Michigan, poem, Poetry, sonnet, spirit guide, winter blues
There’s my Bayou shark, requiem, nimble
through swamp and misty fen. I’ve seen her twist,
turn and sashay away. A wolfish girdle
flitting through cypress bogs. When frost and mist
cake this lake, though, I can find no old souls;
just ice flows and shadows. I got conjure
and shine but as this wintertide gale rolls
through mud and bone I find my warm water
guide is blind. She cannot find me. Iced lakes.
Sightless seers. Gods fade in this pallid
polar light. Dwindling surf’s boom. What can
a shark haunting the Gulf know of frost’s ache?
Nothing good throbs under my closed eyelids
since words make a poet, gods a shaman.