Orca (Oct. 2003)

Ends are my dapple--
white as polar ice,
black as the the
squid’s dying fume.
Only my teeth know
true color, guled
with your gore.
Honestly, I don’t know
how I manage with
you on those crutches,
hobbling like a
old bear from bed
to downstairs
to make coffee and
wheeze down in
a overplushed chair.
I’ve blood so hot
freezing brine
is a sweet bath.
Your hand on the page:
A cub seal I jaw by
the dozen before
a proper red meal.
And your words:
such a lousy sea
for rogering bitch
tunnies or weaving
the floe-wrung waves.
I am the brute dolphin
who mows down
God’s plenty. Within
this narrow abyss
you write I must
somehow wedge my bulk:
to ride despite dry
metaphors and the
landlocked airs of
some samite beach. Me?
I lift and smash the sea
in its darkest arrears,
the lion in a zebra’s cloak,
the mouth which battens
on every neck of red soak.