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.