Friday 22 November 2013

#90 - Plume Face

I saw the likeness of my future husband
in the smoke from an oil rig disaster
and resolved to spend my life finding him.

It was a fruitless, frustrating few decades.
Every man's face was too fleshy, too constant,
too small. I had distinctly seen one eye

at least fifteen metres above the other,
flexing like the suckers on the club-headed
tentacle of a squid. Where were the gouts of flame

in his beard? Where were the dying sailors?
Where were the seagulls?

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