Shallows

This week's poem, as always, with a touch of Aphantasia.

The black water need not be deep
and so it obscures my carvings.
I cut a new story deep into the grain 
of the wood-planked floor of my skiff.
I carved too deep where the tale asked me to,
and too little substance remains in those cuts,
and so the black water of the sea I float in, 
seeps through them and drowns all
the words I wish to have preserved.

I bail the dark with so large a bucket 
that it holds almost nothing.
Again and once more and over again
I toss cupfuls of thick ink-like water
over the rail and back into the sea.
Still the boat fills with heavy water 
until it steadies to rest on the sand,
and I look out to see mist fall away,
revealing a thousand other foundered boats,
spread out around me under a wan moon.

I step out splashing into the shallows
and weave through a silent armada
of tales lost to a handspan of darkness.
I walk toward where my best guess tells me
the sun will lift itself up again.

Thank you for reading. Here’s another poem.

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My initial post has more about Aphantasia. Have a look, and the poems might make a different kind of sense.

Glimpses at the Dark

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Please share this with any aphants you might have in your life. I am highly curious to know if any of this resonates with others whose mind’s eyes are dark.

—Alex

Glimpses at the Dark can be delivered every week.