Phrases for Public Speakers at Sea

by M. B. Powell

We ought, first of all, to note

her oceanic eyes flecked with sea wrack.

And we should pause to consider

the wavy wilderness of her damp hair.

I will not dwell on

her cheeks ruddy under my thumbstrokes.

I will not attempt to explain

the shapely abalone shells of her ears.

I wish to call your attention to

the cunning animal of her mouth, muscular.

I wish to say something about

the mollusky dark language of her kisses.

I am obliged to mention

her sudden breasts, breaching, rhythmic.

And I am perfectly astounded at

her finger charting my lips round her nipple.

Here, in this connection, let us notice

her nipple against the roof of my mouth.

Here, in passing, let us observe

her palms casting me down the dark seaway.

And here, I have to speak again of

sea wrack, oceanic pools, salt waves.

And here, I wish I could stop

and surface, save myself, return to tell.

But now it begins to be apparent

that I am far weaker than I had thought.

And now we are naturally brought on to

the sea change that deception brings.

You may point, if you will, to

scripture, proverbs, and therapeutic talk.

You may also search through history

and learn that my deafness is archetypal.

It is, to be sure, a melancholy fact that

love’s clouds will ever hang on us, drown us.

It is, to be sure, a notorious fact that

love’s tempest has driven me from my home.

What remains to be shown is

whether I can put an end to this.

What remains to be considered is

whether anyone should.

For when we contemplate

the doldrums of life, we cannot rest.

And, likewise, when we reflect upon

the pitiful port, we must rush into peril.