poem: re.



By Claire M. Peeters, 03/2016


Undertheice of the arctic sea is a place

(unspoken thoughts &

cataclysmic calm)


Tourists in boats pass overhead,

but they always leave prettyfast.


Quiet is all they said. We don’t see much here.


They can feel safe, in their parkas and faded barges.

They are safe, yes, safe and faraway.

But what do they know.


What were the signs, after all? One, maybe two, small ripples,

minor disturbances, and certainly nothing to suggest

the mute desperation of a darkwinter below.


Move along, move along, rightback into your habitual oblivion,

it’s where you belong.


“There’s always a calm before a storm.”

In other words, things get real, real quiet

before all goes to shit – I think that’s often true.


It was a storm swell allright, trapped & ready to burst into

crystalline shards allover the place.

I saw it, we both did, impending,

under the silence.


It scared me, and

I thought of running.


But the past be damned.

You ran. I covered my eyes instead.


As it turns out, there was

no devastating blast,

no deafening roar,

nothing like that at all.


It was far more gentle, this implosion:

just a mighty sigh.

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