MAUREEN THORSON

Valentine

Because who wouldn't fall
For a scrimshawed cowrie, that having
Once roundly plied the waters
Of a distant island, now fills
The drunken sailor's hollow fist?
If words liked him, he would say,
Like a robot Teddy Roosevelt,
"I am nothing If not my 700 pounds
Of pure amour, my metallic impossible
Buoyancy." But instead his silent offering
Encloses your image, and bobs it
Gently along, meaning: please.
Please don't feel menaced by the giant auk,
Stuffed and cowering beneath the bar,
By the hoochy stank of trawlers
Dribbling blessed diesel into sunset.
His shellwork invites you to just look
Into its grenadine and egg, that soppy yolk
Over which the shells break, and darkness
Smooths its dress, and where, with a moon snail
Hung lightly round your neck,
You rock all night on the sailor's lap.