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