Member-only story
Shadows on a Broken Vessel
You were born by the river, but you’ve never seen the sea. Gavin Clark
Fresh water suits my watery nature.
I squint into the ripples of redemption,
watch the ducks glide quietly beside me.
Keeping me on the straight and narrow,
the random calls of strangers splatter across
the swirling sky, as I choke on what I know,
I am not crying, cannot even whimper, or sigh.
Mountains and sky reflected in water where
the ordinary has long become the extraordinary
among the golden gleams of sunset
we look, blind, into the sun,
see nothing but the truth
For here, too, light and shade are parting,
flashes of lightning split the far horizon
your southern skies populated with stars
float lazily, I am surrounded by a soft mist.
I feel disturbingly clean shaven
and I miss you so, so much, my only living son.
I gaze into the growling gloom,
the shaded bay has done with the town lights,
though I know they are there, somewhere, mirrored in the lake,
my stomach rumbles, aches as I swallow my hunger for you.
