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Bermuda Triangle

by Johanna May

The memory of the gulls
each wave, the sea, we failed to see.
Nothing sacred remains,
not one crumb of certainty,
but that which is unholy.
That stampedes upon the garden
nothing left
not even thorn to wound
the offense
a proof of bleeding
something still
A wreck of two
smoke hovered--
soot covered, of bitter fumes
an island without death
without boat.


Posted on 01/20/2013
Copyright © 2024 Johanna May

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Gail Wolper on 03/14/13 at 01:37 AM

VERY interesting piece!

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