News from Nowhere
The sea handles laundry
with the ambition of an illegal
washed to the wrong promontory,
one where the masters fly
outdated flags, drink too early,
and brag about the old gal,
then fancy the maid, call her
Mary, who tries hard not to draw
attention to her nimble footprint,
who wants nothing more
than to wrap the last wave,
reduce those flaps and ease the rent
on her aching bones. The sea stabs
her, scores lines on her skin.
Mary’s hospital corners prove
unruly as shorelines and unfold.
Sshh the boss urges. He grabs
Mary, rolls her onto her back,
and she loses herself in waves
that scrub until they erase stacks
of reasons to leave, and excuses
why she cannot listen to news
about a three-card trick of a hand
dealt to her by the sea, knowing what
she ran from held more than
this promise of trouble with laundry,
this sea’s rank spray, and fury.