SINK HOLE

 

Swamp trees, mangrove and bald cypress,

pulled under in stately order,

a cotillion dance well-rehearsed,

or as a hundred-masted ship

whose gentle decline into the waves,

prow to stern, belies the immoveable

solidity of that which breached its hull.

Or here, the earth itself that is mutable,

giving way beneath its own weight,

dragging down all the living mass above,

what breath that is held, held against

a length of time insurmountable, as when

my daughter is taken by the shifting

fault line of her mind and tells me

of the creatures that dance beyond

her window, their lurid colors, their

shivering limbs, the way they beckon

with their eyes, and how she can’t

breathe from the strangeness of it all.

 

Ken Holland has been widely published in the literary journals, with work in recent issues of Roanoke Review, Louisville Review, and The Antigonish Review. 

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