Tags
BOEM, bureau of ocean energy management, H.D., ocean poetry, oil platform, poem, Poetry, Sea Garden, sonnet
You have forsaken oil platforms dotting
the coast. Locals call them eyesores. I call
them a queer Muse. Sadly, they’re bewitching,
ghostly and waiting for the perfect squall
to rift under. Instead, let one live out
its long golden years as a shrine, an art
commune, a haven for all us devout,
seafaring witches. We’ll bring all our hearts
and Craft to this sanctum. Eh? No, listen:
it’s like H.D.’s Sea Garden –– we’ll transform
flotsam into lore. We’ll live without sin
or oil spills. We’ll turn other’s pollution
into the realm of maritime brainstorms
and myth-making. This is how myths begin.
memories of my ghost sista 