Semaphore

Semaphore

It held me under water.

I was charged with a cattle-prod, scalding distress; a grinding wheel in a whirl

of frantic ligaments.

Panic is always stone-sure of its interest,

a dawn herald summoning the sweetness

in the throat that says

“I am coming”,

across the chest that says

“I am here, and you are my lightning rod.”

It repays you in wild gasps

when your attention wanes,

through lungs that know only the signals

of two stern propulsions and a man

overboard.

Now I recognise Juliet.

She sees me through veiled,

cotton-white demurity,

staked out by two brutish,

pavement blue sentries.

She cries:

“I am leaking dangerous cargo.

Keep away from me.”