In the afterlife from a distant forest

driftwood cast upon the sea’s lashing,
slips through the fingers of waves,
colonized by gribbles, riddled with
pinholes from shipworms, hoppers,
wood piddocks home/dinners, dressed
in brine at the wrackline—a woman
tosses driftwood into a pile of dunnage,
salvage bound for the old port dock.
On the dock, a man finds driftwood,
sun-baked, salt-smooth, the size of
a long-bone. Like Odin, he commands
the wood to: Cavort. Frolic. Frisk About.
The man’s lover strokes the wood’s scars,
whorls, burled knots, deep striations in
chalk, wood ash, tinge of smoke,
singed quill feather gray. At her shop,
she twists lady orchids around the wood,
rhythms yellow petals’ into a dancing vine.
Drift, drift, drifting out of itself—I stare
in the shop window, my reflection shifts.
It’s low tide. Waves fall & bloom what floats,
That sparkler. Earth’s flint catching my breath.

Click here to read Vivian Eyre on the origin of the poem.

Image: “Driftwood” by Terri Bateman, licensed under CC 2.0.

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Vivian Eyre

Vivian Eyre is a New York-based poet, and the author of the poetry chapbook, To the Sound (Finishing Line Press). Her poems have been published in Pangyrus, The Fourth River, Moon City Review, Quiddity, Bellingham Review, Asheville Poetry Review, Buddhist Poetry Journal. She serves as the guest curator for the Southold Historical Society’s Whale House museum.

Latest posts by Vivian Eyre (see all)

• In the afterlife from a distant forest - June 11, 2021