Peculiar news reached me today. They say you have returned to
Bledsoe Island. I thought you’d finally caught that chipped arrowhead
between your teeth, tumbling into the deep water well where you’d
tell me of cheating wives who worshiped you, their Tuesday love god.
On windless days, betrayal wafted from your pores in mustard
fog that smelled of nicotine and squelched all hope of poetry.
I learned from you to hold my breath and tongue. A lazy skill, it
saved me sinning forthright on my own. I wonder who I fooled.
They say that Bledsoe’s sinking—climate change and reversing tides.
This time, I won’t toss you a lifeline. We’ve both learned how to swim.
~~~
This is my second foray into the mantinada, an ancient poetry form developed on the Mediterranean island of Crete. Couplets are decapentasyllabic, fifteen syllables per line, and are not required to rhyme. There’s something about the meter that lends itself to themes of vengeance and old feuds. Not my usual dwelling place, though fun to visit now and again.
© Elaine Stirling, 2015
Oceantics 