Hibah Shabkhez

Bermuda Triangle

Five thousand years my strangling weeds and I

Have awaited you in this stolid darkness,

Rotting, as we call to all passersby:

Come on ships we may fold into our embrace

Return on planes we may draw gently down

To look upon your fuming, petrified face

And seek our curse-breaker, our king. Or drown.

Five thousand years my strangling weeds and I

Have broken your kind to our grim harness,

And lamented each shendful victory.

You dive into the deep-freezer

And pull out a misting bottle.

You drink and drink and drink until

The throttled plastic crumples; hiss,

Panting with heartfelt gratitude:

'God bless the child for filling this!',

Throw the bottle, half-empty still,

Back into the ice;

And wonder at the lassitude

Of fate in granting your wishes.

Unwashed clothes strewn about an unswept house

Gather poems in their wrinkles. Folding

Neatened things leaves only creases. To douse

And iron out the maze of a mad king

Made of cloth-crinkles is story-murder.

The fen of fey dragon lords you made me

Crush and flatten to a sweating snow-field

Is wreaking its vengeance on us now. Free

Us both now from this questlessness, and yield

This arid plain to fancy and ardour.

Dead, presumed missing, the other black sock

Is resolved not to turn up. Match the blue

And the brown. As your football choose a rock.

Drink your fill from taps when cups will not do,

And let us laugh at travail together.