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Breech.

Sitka, Alaska

I.
 It's years I've been recovered. Parents gone the way of worms
--mom alone, her own decision.
Dad, how he was always asphyxiated until rolled over. The frontier
I'm abandoned to,
exposed root ribcages above ground, rained on so much there's no
dust, no blow away--traceless surfaces.
With a single bag and one-way ticket I rented the first found available:
three bedroom, living, kitchen, dining
--filled it with myself, every room empty, except where I slept. Girls I
had over, fucked to the floor,
left sobered, mostly. Offered other times at their places later. I
accepted, then abandoned, fixed at the clinic.
This high north, though not freezing, an island settlement cut off the
coast: pines, spruce, and chaotic undergrowth
rise up along the crescent of mountains open toward the ocean. Rain more
sky than the sky is sky.
I'm not home. Less interested in finding it; hours from the
mainland.
II.
On an outlying island red deer wait out hunters tracking shit steam for
rifle crack.
Otters cut away supine through water, to humans, hypothermic.
The turned engine skiff on sucking mud signals the goddamned day's
done.
Across the still, cobalt inlet, cairns line the bald rim of a sundowner
volcano.
Glaciers imagined against the sea/heaven horizon melt when fog lifts
and missed shots echo, fade into the tree line: the casings mimic
pebbles.
Anger defines me, here, in what's seen in pictures as pristine
beauty, untouched
by man's dirty finger: Dad's belched regrets, Mom's
frustrated, unspoken hurt.
I want recompense--solitude and forgiveness' distance--nourishment
sought, sighted, and put down.
III.
Where welding fails release hollers out the soon to be empty space.
A continent, a levee. What rises, takes
--ice given heat, like a child, spread with hands telling, quiet.
Ocean hefted over stern deflates my ill posture
gone life drunk; so drowned in drink nobody wants to want me.
Rare are dads shouted at by moms, Get--Don't feed us--Sink, be
eaten.
Jonah's a lucky fuck, bowel-held and undigested.
Dumb animal, him. Swallowed entire, in warmer water. I don't
believe he escaped.
He's down in there still. Hung from the beast's spine, feet
eaten, body untouched. 
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Article Details
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Author:Louis, Bojan
Publication:Black Renaissance/Renaissance Noire
Article Type:Poem
Geographic Code:1U9AK
Date:Mar 22, 2013
Words:429
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