IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK

Satellites Like Black Stars

A poem — seeking my fortune from the ashes of a shipwreck

Photo by Jimmy Conover on Unsplash

Cords of hair and eyelashes and seaweed
weave together on my brows
weave a helmet or a blindfold
tenfold darker glued with sea salt
closed the curtain on a flaming sky
Blacker than the slick black feather wing
of the ravens overhead

I imagine their wide circles, coarse
tongues and songs, snide remarks of

not too long, now

Empty stomachs like mine
They must be eager, circles shrinking
falling into formation — much ado

I stall
heave my empty stomach over
Signs of life
My hollow ribcage, bony scaffolding
heaves around, collapses and folds
like origami claws, clawing at the sand
as if too hungry to wait for my mouth

My empty stomach churns
My mother’s child turns over
Twenty years of my life turns over
Memories of fine dining in smoking booths…