Membrane Boy's parents have separated,
pending divorce.
They communicate through him, as if shouting
through a sealed porthole.
"Remind Frank to pick you up at six."
"Tell Linda a little junk food won't kill you."
He relays all this as if he were a Marconi operator
working Cape Race.
Membrane Boy arrives home to find
his mother in bed, all vials empty.
He dials 911.
"Man the lifeboats. Stop.
Position 700 nautical miles east of Halifax. Stop."
The 911 operator answers:
"Tell your father not to have his bimbo there."
"Tell your mother to stop playing the martyr."
Stop.
Membrane Boy's mother is a berg,
his father a double hull.
Trapped crew members bang hammers on the side,
A dead stoker smiles at the boy, his eyes blank.
"You have your whole future ahead of you, son," says the dead stoker.
"Full steam ahead," calls the Captain.
The lifeboats are lowered,
their wood between sea and air.
The ship lists, the lifeboats overturn.
Drowning souls cling
to the upturned hulls.
Membrane Boy wants to save them
to push them off
to save them
to watch them die
to be alone
to not be alone
Stop.
Well this is as clear a picture of what happens to a kid trapped between two self-destructing entities as can be described. Brilliantly written.
ReplyDeleteWe want more! We want more! Unprompted Poetry! Wow.
ReplyDeleteThis was an emotional boat ride for sure. Being the membrane is a delicate, demanding role, never easy, always fraught . The nautical allusions are crisp and effective, and the human translation scathing. Fine writing, Shay.
ReplyDelete