Karen Poppy

Sea this morning, a flattened pewter.
Hard and uncompromising.
Waves frozen, unmoving.
Beach combed of all shells, pebbles.
A barren wasteland of sand,
Driftwood scorched and scarred
By now dead fires.

Off in the distance, a whale breaches,
Spouts its salty intake.
Dives back under.
The only thing that can break
These strong waters as it does.

The only thing that can sing
Its unique song.
The unique song that each of us sings.
Not on the surface,
Not in the light,
But there, in the deep,
There, in the darkness.

To find our direction,
Our own voice,
Each other.
To sing uniquely, but not alone.
Eerie electricity. Connection.
Everything is the right choice.

Sometimes I suck the ghost of you
     From a plum at the sink.
Savor its skin against my lips,
     Tongue its soft flesh and juices.
Cry at the hard core, that mass
     That within you grew,
Took you from me, all your beautiful ripeness.
     The sink drips its beat.
The incongruity of things that last:
     Silence, sound, impermanence.