Nevermore

Spilt over the lip of Nevermore
spat from the mouth of Shiva,
he appears on my phone.
Himself. Once us. Fellow sailor
who abandoned me to rough seas.

Skin shed for a new one
through GOD's grace, he speaks
of reformed moneychangers,
red-striped zebras, odd colored leopards.
This man, become stranger, talks on
but my own words ricochet.

My mind travels forty nights
into the desert and I shiver,
still hear Marley's chains clank
over the graves of old lovers.



Pris Campbell
©2010

Published in Heavy Bear, Spring 2010

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