To Live in the Hair of Sargasso SeaJ. P. Dancing Bear
after Jacek Yerka’s “The Sargass Sea Bishop” You make use of the things stuck with you —a pearl of wisdom you cannot remember from where— a faded relative from dry land or impossible fable of an action figure. You’ve made a lifetime of scraps into a comfortable living space. Ship planks you’ve always imagined were once a Spanish gallon framing the deep green twilit mist. If not for the broken clock and a pointless sundial you would not recall the notion of time. An old captain’s spy glass reveals no ships off the port or bow. New rips in the sail with it’s clear emblem of futility. Another black fin slices a narrow path through hair you will neither steer to nor follow. Approaching night and already the stars call out to one another like an oncoming downpour of toads. The kettles and teapots are low of rain; you have a vague notion of some song once chanted that would split the sky into a downpour— some other religion than your own. Lightning flashing over the boiling triangled sea, but it is as half-hearted as a torn map. You might need to lie down for a spell to work out what is needed and what is written in the key of desire. Another slow wave rolls under and a lullaby voice is born. Sleep comes with a green blanket of comfort: everything has been provided for by this god of static seas.
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