by Devon Balwit
No more clinging. I calve from the motherland,
current captured, channeled to beach and the relentless
gaze of the curious, their selfies blind to my fissures.
Invisible salt fingers widen hidden cracks. Inertia
weighs heavily, bodes further fracture. When I go,
it will seem a bomb blast. As in life, I will fire my own
salute. You will flinch, and I will be glad of it, the
sound of me opening spillways in your secret places.
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| An iceberg ran aground over Easter weekend just off the small Newfoundland town of Ferryland, population 465, drawing knots of tourists eager to catch a glimpse. Photo credit: Jody Martin/Reuters via The New York Times, April 20, 2017. |
No more clinging. I calve from the motherland,
current captured, channeled to beach and the relentless
gaze of the curious, their selfies blind to my fissures.
Invisible salt fingers widen hidden cracks. Inertia
weighs heavily, bodes further fracture. When I go,
it will seem a bomb blast. As in life, I will fire my own
salute. You will flinch, and I will be glad of it, the
sound of me opening spillways in your secret places.
Devon Balwit is a teacher/poet from Portland, OR. Her work can be found in many places, most recently: Alyss, All the Sins, Poets Reading the News, Jenny, Dis-Articulations, and Lemon Quarterly.
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