William Doreski

Sea Voices

You arrive in a straight line.
Your bangles and dangles follow,
chattering like miniature parrots.

Your leather luggage suggests
turtles basking on weedy rocks.
Your smile levels the hired help.

I found the corpse of your latest
lover washed up on the beach.
The great white sharks rejected him

after sampling his bitter flesh.
If you were the yachting type
I’d say you pushed him overboard,

but you get seasick just watching
the combers roll up on the sand.
The hotel is a massive cake

decorated by expert bakers.
You’d like to slice off a slab
and devour and digest it

with cunning giggles and smirks.
Tonight at dinner you’ll explain
yourself with allusions to books

you know I’m too old to read.
Your jewelry will fail to dazzle
because I prefer my minerals

uncut and fresh from bedrock.
But later from your wrought iron
balcony we’ll listen to sea-life

plot against evolution, squid
with their thin voices, crabs grumbling,
whales and dolphins speaking plain

serviceable English. We won’t hear
the great white sharks complaining
about your lover’s toxic flavor. 

We’ll hear something deeper groaning
in dark so absolute the moon
can’t tempt it to rise and show itself

in primal spectrums you’d envy.
You’ve never been naked enough
to discover them in yourself.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022).  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.