Go ahead bedangle me with your ropes, your knots
of colored rags that fly my flaws in the breeze. Crow–blast
every annoying trait until a storm of black feathers
whip through our cacophony. You don’t even notice
I disappeared overboard
going down in the oily swell.
But you will. And you will
haul me in hand over hand over the gunwales
into your arms kiss my eartips, bright with salt
wrap a tarp over us. Dim lit under its canvas
your heat my wet
Ropes, rags, feathers tangle at our kicking feet.
Avid cyclist and End of Life Counselor, Nancy Meyer lives in Portola Valley, CA.. Published in: Colorado Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Bitterzoet, Poet’s Touchstone and Wordland, U.K. as well as five anthologies. A blank page is her greatest joy and challenge.