"pirogue" poems
Middle age is a drawer of bottles,
labels rubbed blank,
small tablets stamped
with numbers I can’t read,
others chalk-white,
anonymous as bones.
That August night I woke,
a moth in the moonlight,
wings two halves of a Viking ship.
They say if it maps all four corners
you’re finished.
My head bricked with mucus,
her throat raw-
our marriage a duet
two instruments coughing through the score.
I whispered- moth,
as her eyes opened, dim glow like sunken lanterns.
It weighed two thousand pounds,
wings lifting her hair
like a bride of the dead.
Two optimism pills
waited on my table.
I chewed them dry,
cementing my tongue,
the insect’s brain ticking in my skull
like a clock in a gothic castle.
Then water rose inside us-
first a seep, then a tide,
spilling warm rivers across the floorboards.
The dark room brightened green,
cypress arms cracked plaster,
reeds whispered spells older than fever.
Fireflies stitched lanterns along the walls,
crocodiles slid through like priests of the river.
We held hands as the bed turned pirogue,
drifting through brackwater green.
Above us the moth circled-
no longer omen but guide,
its wings stirring moonlight into spell.
Papa Legba opened the crossing,
Maman Brigitte lit the reeds with flame.
We: two elders slipping from sickness into swamp,
breath turned to whirlpools,
our oaths ferried
on the moth’s traité tide.
Sep 1, 2025
Sep 1, 2025 at 3:03 PM UTC
Paddle! Paddle!! Paddle!!!
Paddle your pirogue down the valley
Even when your moment seems heavy
Spring to life in tasteless tingling time
Only the gritty nibbles with the rhythm
of time.
Written by: Martins Tomisin
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC