Cami Park

Scrimshaw

In Confessional, Poetry, Prose on September 27, 2010 at 7:36 am

At Night
Matthew Shindell

Though I wouldn’t tell her
I see tattooed ships
across her breasts,

hanging
from the main,
a sailor appears in her sleep
and hands me scrimshaw
wrapped in butcher’s paper.
Until morning we arrange
shells into sentences
that I send away
as ransom notes.

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