The sea chokes on its parts
coughs up a lung
expectorates what cannot break down
or swish through its coral esophagus.
It pukes up refuse like light seeking cracks.
What gets eaten or worn as unwanted armor
creates friction for new chemistry.
The day we looked for manatees
was mapped in a mangrove lagoon.
Its stench like a zoo with no one in sight,
oars catching baggies and shoes bobbing
in brown slicks
How would anyone live here?
There are expansive nets now
like huge tongue scrapers, cleansing
the surface.
The sea opens its mouth under each skim,
breathes itself back,
its living bits gaining a small sense in their freedom
in a very slow wash cycle, so slow
they say our plastic waters can be ground
to make decks and chairs
impervious to moisture
and I’m not sure how I feel about that —
watching the sea
from her reclaimed stomach-pumped goods.
They say at this rate, there will always be a demand
but this is not about the best views.
When I poke my halibut smothered in butter
I imagine there is a bottle in there
with a message inside.
—
Rebecca Surmont lives in Minnesota where she can fully enjoy the seasons and cycles of life that is often expressed in her work. She has a love of trains, corn fields, dogs, and tiny things. Her written work has been featured in MacQueen’s Quinterly, Stone Poetry Quarterly, Eunoia Review, Common Ground Review, Crowstep Literary Journal, and Ekphrastic Review, among others. She is currently working on her first chapbook.
