I found this poem on glass bottles,
sunken like crystalline boats
in the fathoms of my cabinets.
I found this poem at the bottom
of a salt-fringed shot glass.
I have been thirsty ever since
for the words that will raise the dead,
bring back the ones who forgot me,
or drown out memories of my failure.
I can only slur my apologies now.
I can only watch blurry-eyed, raw
in the face, fire burning blistered lips.
I have been drinking saltwater,
dashing my hopes upon the rocks.
My shiny bottles are as empty as I am.
I thought about making a ship-in-a-bottle,
but if I did I’d have to fill all of them
with oars. I would have a fleet.
Instead, I imagine them there. I try
to hide them away from the daylight,
capsize them into the recycling bin.
They haunt me. They float above
the kitchen counters, buoyed trophies
of sadness. I cannot raise their anchors.
