Alive (En Banco Plato)
Our boat is sunk, and I can see no other
survivors. Silt falls a long while
to the wreck and the bleached reef.
Skua circle. Beyond the sky a concussion
of sun. At every compass point unmapped
cliffs, deserted wellshaft crumbling in — stormdark clouds.
Visions come; I recline
in half sleep, a lemon sargassoed in the blood-warm sea.
Like a busted hull the skull floods again and shades thrash
across my eyelids, fly for somewhere, maybe
land. I decline to sink, or follow them. It’s not yet time to weigh
this grin.
The Bird Poem
It’s not that they descend
From tiny dinosaurs.
And it’s not that they
Can sing and swing and squawk.
These goddamn things can fly!
Benjamin Goodney’s work has appeared in The McNeese Review, Hotel Amerika, Best New Poets, Seneca Review, Guernica, and elsewhere. He co-founded and manages the literary magazine Storm Cellar. He took two degrees in philosophy out of Illinois and resides along the Minneapolis–Orlando corridor.
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