a— We are rolling ten degrees to the port side,
and the Captain says the weather is only
getting worse. He posted a thermal image
of the storm—the blue turning to yellow
& red & finally, at the eye, back to blue & us
a small dot on the radar steaming towards it.
Our berths run fore and aft, so my sleepself
jerks in my dreams. I sprint fast towards
a flaming ball of sun locked in time midrise,
as each step sinks me deeper. My arms grow,
trying to take up more space, but in the night
there is no walk on water; there is no escape.
When I wake, there is daylight streaming
from my porthole. I am soaking & irritable. —j
About the Creator
Joe Nasta
Hi! I'm a queer multimodal artist writing love poems in Seattle, one half of the art and poetry collective Eat Yr Manhood, and head curator of Stone Pacific Zine. Work in The Rumpus, Occulum, Peach Mag, dream boy book club, and others. :P
The Reluctant Reporter
"You can't send me!" "There is no-one else. It's you or no-one, and that is not an option." Ameera looked at the fat paunch and florid face of her boss, a man who lived for the story and the kudos it brought him but who rarely gave consideration to the people behind the drama. When had he become so hard? She reckoned that by the end of the year, he'd be dead, collapsed from a heart attack and she struggled to conjure any sympathy in that moment and instantly felt ashamed at displaying the same lack of compassion that he had.
By Rachel Deeming8 days ago in Fiction
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