THE SYLKIE BOY
Whispering. Wishing. With the water washing over.
Swish swish. I wish, I wish. And him limp, listless. Lying lumpen
and leaden; deadened, decaying.
No, not even praying: not anymore.
An ocean for a wishing well. White sands yellowing in the foam.
And the water comfortably warm: of woman, of womb. Sucking and
sliding. Creeping up and sifting away.
And his head muggy with words and wishes. Fishes and kisses.
Sandcastles and siren’s singing. The sun beating down.
And somewhere distant someone laughing.
The water licking his back with its clammy tongue.
The wind carrying soft syllables. I wish, I wish.
And his feet bobbing in the water.
And him tasting, not tasting, the water in his mouth.
The briny effluence, analgesic and addictive:
Drinking it into his lungs.
Now floating so sweetly, under the water, with the fishes.
Laughter and singing, undulating.
Heady as mulled wine
Or the first kiss of a cigarette.
Drifting. Twisting with the eddies. Not feeling. Not seeing.
Not waving. Not caring. No.
Not even praying.