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Currajah (news & notes)

JEN CRAWFORD

        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