a weekend at sea

Three women lurch around the place and something
is said as one pushes through, bow-legged and bent as
a birthing canal, all antiseptic pink and washmint green
shuffling like a loon-at-sea in these plastic overshoes
crinkling and crackling on cold tiled floors, I sit by a bed
waiting for a moon to change

and despite knowing that none of this is really mine
some old dominion remains, perhaps from weekends spent
spending half-heard niceties with three generations all
holding the same chins, spilling sextants and china cups,
muttering on my otherness, merely thousands spurted across
a sea

and you sleep the sleep of the just put to sleep,
and I scan booming echoes of inertia, knocking a knock:
my skull on some guilty hull, riveted to the sides of
a short-stopped journey which cuts through ice that will
scream against the edges. I slice my topsail, wick myself,
waiting for a wind to do something

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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