The Flood of Noah and His Friends
You tell yourself you would pick up any you saw,
lowering lifeboats, hauling up. You would wrap
the shivering in blankets, divvy provisions
to the last crumb. A good soul, you would sleep
the sleep of the righteous. Really, though, you
would pass on by, willing the panic-slung arms
nothing more than a wave, the piercing pleas,
seagull-mimicry. You would note latitude
and longitude, promising to forward coordinates
to the next boat, knowing yours the last and only.
You would fix in your mind’s eye, the odd
conjunction of predator and prey, threat neutralized
by misery. Something for a fine poem, you
would think, when, at last, you reached harbour.
This poem was written as part of the ekphrastic Halloween poetry challenge.
Devon Balwit writes in Portland, OR. She has five chapbooks out or forthcoming: How the Blessed Travel (Maverick Duck Press); Forms Most Marvelous (dancing girl press); In Front of the Elements(Grey Borders Books), Where You Were Going Never Was (Grey Borders Books); and The Bow Must Bear the Brunt (Red Flag Poetry). More of her individual poems can be found here as well as in The Cincinnati Review, The Stillwater Review, Red Earth Review, The Inflectionist; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Noble Gas Quarterly; Muse A/Journal, and more.
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