Where’s my mother in this vortex of grief?
I see her boat still upright, still afloat,
but I’m bailing so much murky water.
I’m watching my hull and the puncture there—
aperture of my pain-eye—
that swells and constricts like it’s alive.
The sea around us swirls, wrenches us
perilously toward the pull of the undertow.
For now, it’s enough to share the hurtling
water, waving white flags as we circle,
waiting for this whirlpool to loose its hold.
One less than three, we bob along
on the surges, but my sorrow
feels whalesome and wholly my own.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 21, Issue 3.
Denton Loving is the author of the poetry collection Crimes Against Birds (Main Street Rag) and editor of Seeking Its Own Level, an anthology of writings about water (MotesBooks). His writing has recently appeared in Iron Horse Literary Review, Kenyon Review, The Chattahoochee Review and The Threepenny Review. Follow him on twitter @DentonLoving.
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