A Poem by Denise Riley
You men who go in living flesh
You men who go in
living flesh
Scour clean then drape
your souls
In plumy dress that
they may rise
Clear of those
thrashing shoals
Of
mackerel of the sea who call
You loiterers on the
strand
To heed your future
salted lungs
Pegged out to dry on
sand.
I was upright upon the
land
Another thing in the
sea
Its light has washed
my eyelids shut
Green grass floats
over me.
Hope is an
inconsistent joy
Yet blazes to renew
Its lambent
resurrections of
Those gone ahead of
you.
