Carrier Bag

I tumble over beach sand, its crystal grit
irritating my soft cells,
my youth etched, like the salt sea
gores the chalk teeth
of mountains.

Over the powder curves I slide,
like a dune-snake parting coarse wheat
to explore the dawn after a dream
of glass marbles
and Christmas sunshine.

Each motion cracks me,
rips at my tendons, once white
with oil-warmth, once food-full
now hungry, now a cloak
of shivering beetle-blinks,
bullied by barbs to form a sad
homage to a flower.

I am mist, a pepper of gulls
in cobalt sky.

I am foam, exploded into
malignant leaves.

My ancestors were trees
yet I am a toxic machine.

I might choke an animal,
and in its wretch it may
hack my name,
yet my skin, torn by its
stomach juices will survive
to sea-spawn into a billion rasping eggs,
an emulation of life,
like a ghost family,
like a dream
of snow.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.