The Titanic

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.