Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

— Virginia Woolf

Crossing Biscayne Bay

by M. J. Arlett

We do not wish to hurry. Snagged

by the currents, avoiding what has been left

on the shore, what we know.

 

Blue water, blue minds. Where do manatees

go when their bellies are filled with hose

water? Polluted, drunk on mankind.

 

This affair will annihilate us. Green shadows

must cover all of Florida—river-of-grass-state—

constant drift released impassive into the Atlantic.

 

A little light is filtering out of the palms,

their fronds spread wide like silence:

they are thin and sharp and full of hunger.

 

 

 

M. J. ARLETT is an MFA candidate at Florida International University. She was born in the UK, spent several years in Spain, and now lives in Miami. Her work can be found in Portland Review, Gravel, The Boiler Journal, and elsewhere.

 

The truth may be stretched thin, but it never breaks, and it always surfaces above lies, as oil floats on water.

—Cervantes, Don Quixote

© 2016 The Indianola Review