Laura Dunn

from the blue word

You by the stove. It must be winter.
You filling it with driftwood and fire.
You and I in the tool shed
mumbling forgive us for not trespassing.
Our clothes in a pile wrinkled by shadows, this time
this time, the lamplight the sea wind
through cracks in the wall. I will stretch the word out—
you out of the skin you
into the ears,
the blue word, the shade of the sea.

And the navy ship called out to see
what hid beneath. And the navy ship was sound
through water. And the sonar
was a siren that pulled him to the surface.
Do not give us bread,
don’t give us only words
if they call out
and divide a whale from its world.