NaPoWriMo 2013 Days 01 & 02

Day 01: prompt- get the first line from someone else’s poem.

Wreckage

If only bodies weren’t so beautiful- said the waves to the shore moments before sipping all sand and ships into its bowels of seaweed and sirens sharpening their pearl teeth on stone, a song of desire stirring in their throats, tongues ready for the feast- a taste of human flesh following all those years spent scavenging for morsels of meat on skeletons; seashells shivering from the water’s embrace, insides all dried up, bearing nothing but fruits of dust; palm trees pulled into the deep like paintbrushes flung across a painting that failed to fly; limbs fighting against currents, fingers curling into claws, makeshift anchors grasping at nothing but the light slithering through folds of liquid and coral and fish, illuminating all things beautiful before they breathe their last: bubbles blooming from the bottom of the sea.

Got the first line from Dean Young’s Red Glove Thrown in Rosebush.

Day 02: Lie.

The World According To Water

I was born minutes after sunlight, a century
before nitrogen knew its name, bare

seconds short of the arrival
of valence electrons, light-

years prior to the discovery of the skeleton. I knew
the sun was my only friend – a plate broken, affixed

to the sky’s face; its hair all kelp and algae
constructed from heat, caressing the pores

of my waves- all that warmth led me to bleed
fish and fossil alike. At a young age I learned to speak

less. I yearned to play with the ground that grew
pterodactyls on its elbows, mammoths

from its fingernails. In that age gods were but balls
of mud yet to be made holy, yet to take

shape. I longed for the land yet it responded to my song
by splitting itself into continents, masses that crumbled

at the slightest touch. It called upon lightning
to ward me off. Lifting my body, I struck

a bargain with the sky- granted it the ability to breathe life
into man in exchange for an extra organ, wielding

rain and hurricanes, cloistering the soil
with clouds aching to pour, flood

the firmament with its love. I howled
and banshees were born. Elsewhere,

the advent of mankind: all meat and calcium, a net
of nerves and arteries – an atlas

of smallness, susceptible to virions
and the common cold, lives

so short that death loomed
as though an angel. They invented boats, breezing

through my skin, charted stories that could dance
down to my deepest trenches, driving whales mad and mute,

built cities with arms arching towards the sky; bred bombs
from windowless rooms – seeds that singed

everything in sight, shrapnel
brighter than supernovas,

so warm, bleeding
all fish into fossils.

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