by Kenneth Radu
A doll’s head, chipped by salt,
green from drowning,
stares up from the ocean floor.
Fish swim among the prisms
of unfallen chandeliers
and, phosphorescent, glow.
An electric eel pirouettes
inside a sailor’s skull,
then slides out a socket.
The ship is broken
like a sunken monument,
soft to touch and moving,
a trick of lights under water
and the camera’s searching
eye. What moves is memory:
a woman’s white muslin
in the breeze, badminton
cocks slapped back and forth,
an orchestra tuning, a dance,
good-night Mother, iceberg
and black water breaking in.
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