The Trunk

The catches still work on my trunk
at the bottom of the ocean,
– they have sprung up

waiting to burst open and my clothes
with all the best labels, dresses worked
in lace and silk, jewel encrusted
ready to delight the captain at his table.

It is the best state room,
adorned with the plushiest of velvet,
the blackest of tulips and the choicest

oranges from Seville – juice now dried up.
Along with my tears, one person can only
cry so much and there are many who wail

into the long dark nights – we are forsaken.
My child’s elephant still has wheels
to freely move in its own safari, move heavily
around the theme park – already endangered.

The Trunk

The ormolu clock has stopped dead
and refuses to tell the time as if
we needed to know – not in this lifetime.
Bubbles rise and rise and the date
etched in the blackest of ink still surprises us.

               15th April 1912

On all our gravestones surrounded by our sad remains
salt encrusted and to be left in peace, because
that is all we have to remind us
of the glories of this world - as we surface into the next.