It's Still Life

Plesiosaurs

At salty edges
the beasts drank brine
and bit the wind.

The tides drag debris;
bone, rib, vertebra,
a silver scatter
under the tilt of a ruined sky.

The jaw of the sea
cracks open.

It does not sip.
It slathers rock raw.
It vaults the horizon
like a spine snapping.

Voices?
Gone.

Each stitch of speech
ripped from the throat,
salt-packed,
swallowed whole.

The edges remember.
The tides do not.

The beasts were never gentle.

Neither is the sea.

---

This Week’s 12 Words: jaw debris stitch slather voices beasts tides salty vault edges silver tilt