JEN CRAWFORD
Poetry—'late rescue'
      

             midden

    over the rise the white
fly away

           you tune the headache
on shell and bone

it’s the forty-fifth day.

radio silence.

   back at the colour hole they’re
jammed in against the sun’s swoop
down to sucking marrow
   & longing
        for the shoal hush you have now,
envoy

in the wide open
  you pick through salt and skin flake

store your minerals
  in blurry maps
translucent over bone

finger remains & formulate your
position: the closer the edge the finer
  the particles there was water. no,
             the closer the centre the finer
the particles there was fire
             reducing        you my silver
                  tiny green
                                          you my mercury
                 mite

              back at the colour hole the stranded what year -

          but you’re out you’ve reached the line of sight
       no thinking back;

          just the feeling of lightness settling in.
      a freighter blip. another.

light of days settling in


                           scattering the view

                                                    hollowing your elbows
                                      did you know
                                       that wet blue fish bent coccyx tide
                         collapsing                                    do you
                                                    know that oceanic
                                                                scatter

late rescue.

home I’m waiting.       I receive.
rosary to you recognise

                                       even the sound

                                       of an aeroplane