Medea V / Departure

Whale-road. The path to Athens glittered
with blues, and as we rolled, I dove under
with those broad, gray backs through each wave. What mattered
now? A clutch of minnow breaking surface asunder,

the sun on my face burning like potential,
salt in my hair, my skin. The knowledge of you
unable to locate the source of denial.
The world billowing below this normal vessel.

The spray and scent and speed. A strafe of white
gulls peeling over the hull’s wall, blooming like
bare streaks. A hint of fire on the horizon . . .

Upon leaving the Kingdom where every hero’s
a victim and vice versa: the V-shaped flight
of something rising in rows and rows and rows.