Travis Stephens
July 4th at Suicide Lake
the heat arrived
after June’s mild outlook
& April’s laziness, July
bit the sun that fed it.
if a rocket flies over,
it is tempted to torch
a landscape of
dirt like eczema
flowers dust dried
amid brittle leaves
of midday angst,
too tough for caterpillars
& too dry for aphids
so only the black
beetle biters persist.
no birds.
everything smells of
gunpowder &
flinches.
~
“let the wicked fall into their own nets”
Psalm 141:10
the mermaid plays coy,
flicks her long hair,
a shrug, a come hither,
while the rest of the fish
spill from the seine.
the wind is backing,
smites me with a gust of rain.
my feet are wet.
i have not slept in three days.
the sail slats like an overgrown
puppy tugging at the leash.
keep a hand on the sheet, always,
i’ve been trained, but this flax
sail was woven by my daughter
and there will never be another.
my hand stings and despite
the woven chain on my wrist
i can feel the solt blisters open.
this is the first good day
since the season opened.
the buyer boat has a
list of expenses owed:
tarred marline
needle
pound of coffee
an orange.
the mermaid surfaces
just out of reach.
i have a gaff hook.
i have a grapnel.
she regards me as the
whale regards a tanker.
swirl and
gone.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain and writer living with his family in California. His work has recently appeared in Word’s Faire, Washington Square Review, and Red Ogre Review.
