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Leaving Belfast

Charlie Southerland

 

The image of you going down, the depths

To which you’d sink, the way you break in-two,

The way you drift apart to settle debts

And scores with dying at the bottom—you

Must know, yeah, you must know the bitter silt

Of lying on your side, unsinkable,

Unsinkable, and if you had been built

With some humility less the fable

You’d still be able, lass, to sail with me.

How steamy we’d have been between the sheets

And swells and lovely gusts and calms so free,

To romance anarchy with starboard seats,

Instead of drowning both of us when down

You went, when you went down, when you left town.

 

 

 

Charles (Charlie) Southerland lives in God-forsaken Arkansas, and writes poems. He is published in a few good journals here and there.