New Mirage Journal

Scraps

It has been drifting in icy tides,

its feathers peeling,

like stitches unpicked

from a mucky cloth,

dangling from the lip of a wave

before dipping below water.

Our rudder rubs against

the skinny corpse – to find its life

not quite extinguished.

Further out, we discover others;

a trio, clustered

up against a rock,

butting bodies, beaks and orange legs;

scrambled concoction

fetched up by the slick.

A quiet curse.

Bent heads droop over the side,

trail nets, scoop flesh.

There is no rescue. Just silence in a boat

in the black heave of water,                                                                                                        

men and their staring eyes,

one arm reaching with a boathook;

another arm holds mine, while I film:

collecting scraps.