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Ashore
Clams exhaust perfectly; my eyes open
wide and dilatory as they. The tempest has come
to completion. Outside this bedroom's
scraping curtains and raw ghosts the lake
holds its belly in meditation. Out there,
there is only moisture to breath, only
old rain. The horizon holds nothing, no morning
is implied though it is so; black poplars pierce
the soupy grey, the grey which eddies in the space the sky
has travelled from. A laundry line is caught
somewhere between concentration
and total apathy. A towel the colour
of the moon billows and then
startles again, giving its communion.
There is this tranquil ship which rocks
the bay's crook, unsettling the stomach where all
is supposed to be forgiven. It is as distant as the gull
or pill that full convalescence requires. Unfortunately,
I am this shell hauled to heaven
and abashed: dropped to the crags and jags
of shores to be swallowed, or not. On this white
beach my shattered sheets are furled
with angel hair and ivy. My finger is free
to root about the shards and search
for any sustenance it needs, but I continue to find
a bruised tautology: my own pinkish qualm, flesh-
slab on stone. I always bring this home,
though it is hardly sufficient
to nourish what has emptied.
Natalie Helberg
Email: Natalie Helberg
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