Probably Confabulations Published in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine poetry
My words are submerged and suffocated.
Intimations declarations probably confabulations too
are all murdered after a slow-motion fall through the slats of the dock.
I am howling in grief agonizing over the fatality of my phone and an entire year’s worth
of attention paying. The ministrations from mouth breathers come
pointing out my cyber stupidity. Did you back it up? I'm drowning in tears of Denial.
On my knees, face pressed against the slats of the dock I deal out sharp tongued Anger and Bargaining in a string of profanity laced threats
summoning some benevolent wilderness scuba diver or really small but friendly mermaid to rescue what has been eliminated.
Moments of affirmation Coaxed persuasions Rumored parleys
Allusions explained Feuds unsolved My year was razed, engulfed by water
disannulling, vanquishing my capacity for forgiveness. Once the erasure is complete I stew on the deck of our cabin
in the descending darkness welcoming Depression to the Bargaining Anger party.
The hills silhouetted under the luminous Milky Way echo the haunting wail of a loon calling for a lost mate.
I never should have gone down that Path to the dock. My Sacrifice at the bottom of the lake really should be enough to appease the Netherworld, to quell the raging.
But it is not. I will never Accept that words can survive Cyberspace and the loon wails with sorrow until the sun rises.