Little Schooner
       

Now I the rower gentle on the water. Now I the water gentle
in refraction. If this the moon, I befuddled by its light
touch on owls, on feathers, on one bare branch settling
the rower toward stasis. If I drown, it will be in my genitals,
that dreary drooping flesh I detest-it put you in hospital
and daughter arrived to this sick, sad world. I was blighted
in my skull's noxious water. I rowed in circles gently
so as not to incur reflection. The moon insisted on light.

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Copyright © 2014 Joseph P. Wood All rights reserved
from Broken Cage
Brooklyn Arts Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission