by Erin Sweeten
We travel the waters;
the waters travel us, trace us,
turn us dark and dank. The
trip from pupil to lip: traversed
by water. Is this the kind of baby
I can rock up on my hip,
tick tock, tick tock? I’m lost,
I’m tossed with the bathwater,
I’m the gutter’s daughter
for a day. It’s my job
to plot the demise of dawn,
to cotton to the facts of midday.
But this is the Lord’s day, the day
that undresses, desists, the due
date to get it all unlocked.
I’m seasick; sunspots
pock the sky. A bird’s laboring
down the sky’s track, nothing
but a speck of black,
my old turtle dove,
fat and coming from far off.
