Voyaging to the Antipodes
I embark now from this land
of stone botanies and enter
the sea. I plunge my arm
in her secret places.
My compass turns to ichor.
I sink.
From her lips
there grow savage bouquets
of kelp. Between her hips
the drowned grind
in their dance. I join them.
Cleanse me, woman,
of asphalt, of diffidence,
of the rage of wires!
My bush floats like
a lotus in her green depth.
I uncoil to sleep, her
turbulence subsides.
Day comes, the waves
tread one by one
to customary beaches.
The sun blinks. She
awakes. Her eyes are dry
stones, her spray
my sweat, my kissed mouth
chafed by salt.
Sargassos of what
latitudes?
Under what stars?
-George Hitchcock
of stone botanies and enter
the sea. I plunge my arm
in her secret places.
My compass turns to ichor.
I sink.
From her lips
there grow savage bouquets
of kelp. Between her hips
the drowned grind
in their dance. I join them.
Cleanse me, woman,
of asphalt, of diffidence,
of the rage of wires!
My bush floats like
a lotus in her green depth.
I uncoil to sleep, her
turbulence subsides.
Day comes, the waves
tread one by one
to customary beaches.
The sun blinks. She
awakes. Her eyes are dry
stones, her spray
my sweat, my kissed mouth
chafed by salt.
Sargassos of what
latitudes?
Under what stars?
-George Hitchcock