Winter 1993 • Vol. XV No. 1 Poetry |

Dead Pig

Not drunk, but sick from bad fish or fowl or some several other possibilities, in fact almost to dying on the landing in Marseilles, the liberty boat long gone, the carrier an occasional shudder of green running light far to sea, the sea between us a shoaling of whitecaps otherwise stormy with darkness, desperate, I found a hotel and to the night clerk tried to explain, and say my name, and failed, but he gave me a room, and just barely inside, the door still clicking shut, fallen helpless to hands and knees, I spewed out everything, everywhere, onto the floor, into bidet, toilet bowl, sink, potted fern, then fell on my face somewhere, half underneath the bed, slept there until, cheek and hair crusted to the dusty rug, bitter-mouthed I woke in a sour, webby light that could have been morning, early evening, any time of a bad day, brown clouds, a brown sea spitting phlegmy spray. The carrier hours out of sight, I anyway came down to the empty slip and hung around awhil

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Not drunk, but sick from bad fish or fowl or some several other possibilities, in fact almost to dying on the landing in Marseilles, the liberty boat long gone, the […]

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