Kathryn Smith
At the World’s End
Gulls pry mussels at the hinge. Their shells
grow useless, tangled in bladderwrack and dead
man’s bootlaces. Hoofprints in sand but no sight
of the deer. River otters wrestle in the shallows,
bare their teeth. When did the world begin cleaving?
Urchins probe with ink-bright spines. They have
no eyes; they’ll take in anything. The otters’ claws
aren’t native here, poised to shred the gulls
for any scrap of meat. I would watch
them do it. At the hinge of the world,
it’s lope or swoop or scuttle. Pretty soon now,
the tide will stop this rise and fall. In that calm
before, I’ll place pebbles on my tongue
for the brine. Chew kelp berries, the rind.
Kathryn Smith is the author of Book of Exodus (Scablands Books, 2017). Her poems have appeared in such publications as Redivider, Mid-American Review, Bellingham Review, Carve Magazine, Southern Indiana Review, and Rock & Sling. She lives is Spokane, WA, and is the recipient of a grant from the Spokane Arts Fund.
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