Fog

Prognathism: mandiblular: his chin juts out –

like Beachy Head (he thinks) or barracuda;

juts out defiant neath tight upper lip.

He hates this.  He hates his tiny tiny little mouth,

wishes God had given     more thought to his creation.   

He has weighed up the odds,

the odds the risks of complications;

surgery – nervous (as he is of it),

he will sit it out, indefinite. 

Despite his sore self-seen affliction –

he has it all (he thinks) –

he has the sea and she and Lucky Lady. 

She?  He has this notion she is leaving. 

Is she leaving him?  

He feels her withdraw,

a moody ebbing ocean leaving,

leaving in its wake a lonely barren shore.

She: distressed, stress manifests cutaneous,

her silvery scales remind her of the fish;

that fish (bass she thinks) that flapped and flailed,

hooked as it was to certain death,

its tiny tiny little mouth gasping gaping drowning.

It simmered on the galley stove,

simmered in its briny waters. 

He herbed and lemoned it,

seasoned it, hot alive with peppercorn. 

He savoured it, the smell of it. 

Succulent, it melted in her mouth just as his kisses did. 

His kisses did, and then it came, came horizontal,

(as she had always lain before him (always always wanting him)),

came horizontal rolling fogging up her mind;

lost in it    she found herself    almost invisible. 

Distracted then (by it) she slowly drifted into it;

no, it took her hooked her reeled her in (flapping, flailing).

He is losing her;

lost she is to some lonely barren shore,

where darkness offers itself     the infinite,

ebbing as she is,    towards it,

gasping gaping slowly drowning.

Anna :o]

Entered at Open Link Night at dVerse – hosted by the lovely Mary.  Thanks Mary.  
Also entered at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United - again hosted by the lovely Mary!

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Author: Gillfoto