Paul Archer - photo Paul Archer - poet, translator



The Far Reaches

Her flesh shrank
from the spars
of her shipwreck.
She ate less and less
until on her thin
hacked, blood-
barnacled wrists
drips of fresh blood
were so enormous
they drew sleek sharks
racing from wards
as monotone as the sea

Sliding off the edge
of even the most
modern of maps
to where dragons
and sea-monsters
have always been, she
was there before you -
driven by the currents
in her electric brain
beyond all the places
that are named
out into the far reaches

Buckled to a trolley
wheeled down halls,
slammed into a cell
with sound-proof walls -
will you visit her?
Go on, go now... be
naked under your skin
feed on your nerves
and with the heart's
drum rolling, let loose
the frantically mauling
caterwauling truth


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