I move my mouth, faking navigation in alien languages.
You crack a yacht open over coral.
Dolphins swim in your head.
I say probably they’re crabs
or decaying flesh.
Dead men storm their fangs into unanswerable ash.
Stars lie ahull along the current.
You note their abyssal float.
I listen to their waves and whispers.
You sweep moss off the deck,
I’ve no language to answer you.
The certainty
in lost at sea:
The night’s octopus pulls the moon into ink.
I spew ink like spit on notebooks.
I’ve kept this petty letter on the dock,
its howling winds whirl immeasurable.
I hold onto your concussions.
A crab rises from the bubbling pool.
The urn lies wet and open.
Shin Watanabe was born in Gainesville, Florida and has lived in New York, New Jersey, Minnesota, and Nevada. He studied philosophy at the University of Minnesota and received an MFA in poetry at the University of Las Vegas. Shin is currently a PhD candidate in English with a creative dissertation in poetry at Binghamton University. His poetry has appeared previously in the Colorado Review, I-70 review, and others.