Mudlark No. 63 (2017)

		              Cars pass. So many cars 
				                       it’s hard to cross Mumbles Road.
                The end: just words. 

	                         How we’ve failed our words, siphoned off their power,
      no longer attached
		             to blue-rayed limpet, yellow splash lichen, fan worm; 
			            to mitochondria, finger, hairy-legged mining bee, bear...

	              Arbitrary signs, unconnected, disconnected 
					     	                (What does “bear” mean when 									          
                                                                        there are no bears?)

  White cloud horizon merges with silver opaque sea. Sparks 
		                   		 on water from sun filtered through cloud. Shine 
	  of waves, a bit further out. 
					              	                 Cars pass.

			            Then, back home, onscreen: oil 					       			         
			            gushing into the Gulf of Mexico. 

				          A hole in the fucking sea! 
	          Oil the smile Oil the handshake Oil fingering the hole open   
		  Oil wing Oil beak Oil grass Oil blind Oil mute Oil sand Oil 

                                         cut into a prism by the sun, spreading 		
                  the word: 

“We’re sorry for the massive disruption it’s caused their lives,” the BP CEO said.
	          “There’s no one who wants this over more than I do. 
				                                          I would like my life back.“

Christien Gholson  | Tidal Flats 14
Contents | Mudlark No. 63 (2017)