Where the Wild Waves Roam
by Stacey Balkun

Each snap of the tide
is as fast as a sleep
without dreams.

 

Each white cap seems to bob
its tired head—sways to stay
above waves, above sea.

 

She can drown things.
I am writing from sand,
a bright graveyard of rocks.

 

There are mussels and bivalves,

I see clamshells that fall
sudden death on the sand.

 

One lone gull floats
on the surf, he bobs,
with eyes closed.

 

He faces the sea

to welcome silence,
peace on the wind.

 

I wonder if he’s meditating,
if he’s speaking to his god
or maybe dreaming.

 

From the Third Level
after William Blake's Proverbs of Hell

And the caterpillar lays her eggs

on the greenest leaves,

I can see her from my window

and I think of small babies with

small baby teeth.

If my children ate plants,

I’d climb the tallest trees

and pick each meal

off only the finest branches.

 

But I’ll never do that because

I’m human and we’re all sinners,

anyway. We choose only the

best branches to break, set

fire to the greenest leaves

and let the offering of fruit

ferment before we drink.

 

This kingdom rots for our pleasure

and, inebriated, we accept it,

choosing wicked pleasures of life

over simplicity, like reaching

out a window to touch a sycamore tree.

 

STACEY BALKUN is a New Jersey poet whose work has appeared in the Edison Literary Review, U.S. 1 Worksheets, and Spindrift. She has worked with Middlesex County’s Arts High School and the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation.

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