Why I Don’t Piss in the Ocean
Once my sister told me that from her summit at the city 
pool she could see the yellow billows spread like gas 
or dreams between kids’ legs. In something the size of the sea, 
you can’t be sure who’s watching from above. Let’s say 
it’s the Almighty, twirling His whistle, ready to blow it 
at any moment and let loose the bottomless Apocalypse?
The ocean would make bone of a body, coral of bone. 
Piss, and a tiger-fish darts through a skull-hole, a weed
weaves itself through ribs. You, too, have seen 
the bulbs flash from the sea. You, too, have felt 
it breathing down your neck. You eat fish. You’ve heard 
that mermaids sing. My dreams are as beleaguered as the next 
Joe’s, my happiness as absurd, but I’m not going to go 
piss in the ocean about it. No, not in the ocean.
Copyright © 2004–2017 Memorious