Susan Comninos

Call it rocky
land, a slim raft
of hope, a shimmied
then stagnant skiff, squatting
in the shallows, visibly

rapt, longing at the shore.
Its anchor has the taste
of iron, when you gnaw
at the leg of its length,
then haul it up, link over

married link: capable, strong.
Feel it, this boat
of boredom turns fast
as a fish, gulping
happiness as gladly

as it does the patinaed air. Puffed,
its gills push us far
from its ears
like a fight, too wet
and fixed to recall. A hook

to the mouth pulls us
close, almost
to the center
of something. You dive
your drift onto it, then me.