By Preston Caruso
“Yonder!” screams the scene slowly slipping off the cusps of my eyes
The waves unfamiliar, the rhythm new. The slick plastic of the ship threatens to spit me off.
“You like it.” He says between gargling water. “You really do. You must.”
Crisp words slip from my min now as the setting sun burns my eyes.
I fall, slip, or stumble, either one, into the back of the ship, off the pointed deck
Ex-heroes, reformed liars, plunge mugs full of sea water down raspy throats
They don’t seem to notice me
“Yonder?” They scream with a conviction to inhibition. I would toy with their insubordination, had I a clue.
The world continues to turn over, the timer about ready to burst with ding
Others float alongside in the water, only one side of them breaking the waves
They seem friendly enough, Chickadee, the first and by far the best spoke of “Yonder”
But her words were milky,
What are milky words, Juno?
I pontificate something of comfort
But forebodingly crippling)
So I greeted the moon with a solemn look
The moon stood as a pale idol, I admired its form, but quietly embittered at its vocal embargo
Time went on, and I was sure that I was in love with the moon
I begged for a response to my blessings of its time
But No, not even Yonder.