• Virginia Kennard

We are silent gawping as she roars.

we are standing gawping

we are standing around as she drowns



we are silent gawping as she roars

as she cries

as she suffers

“desperate to consumer” her image her body her inert form

her floating beauty her suffering

“but there is hunger in me too…we both share a longing”

a helicopter flies overhead drowning out the voices drowning out the furies their words her words

the audience has since dispersed the durational creepiness too much to bear, eating lunch nearby too confronting and mundane

is it that we tire of the constant voices of suffering women?

when will they just shut up

“and let you see within”

“i tremble beneath your body as you sweated”

leaves are catching in her drifting black hair

“for her i will make a meal of you…simmer”

“i have cut skin from another man’s body and dried it by the full moon…i would carry your blood in my mouth…and never leave the sky”

the relentless tide ebbing over her body unconcerned at the body in its way in its wake

“preventing you from finding your way home”

her feet pop up behind her bending up breaking the floating form

her floating form

it is a treat she is alive

“which cradles this body like algae and cigarette butts”

the potent yet forgettable

transient brightness of the rubbish

the detritus collected thrown at drifting in the sea

the harbor

the tide

the descending grey seagulls hovering


is she to be consumed?

are we simply consuming her with our gaze

am i

“i will suffocate on land there is only hunger there”

hobby boaters pointing interested bewildered

the wind shoving the tide more vigorously


she continues to float

she isn’t bobbing she is drifting

“i wake for her in brine water…and weak broiling water”

a condom appears and ambles meanders wafts

like a tiny submerged windsock

“her hurts are mine…for her i will fall to fly”

nesting seagulls on the bank in the backgrounder like stones statues stoic observers

“like a bursting child”

“i hope you weren’t expecting sweet nothings…clichés…waxing lyrical”

her heels do bob her head shifts she coughs and splutters gently innocuously

so quietly we forget she was alive for that moment

a hand caresses the back of her neck her hand she checks in on herself itself

“wait for my signal i’ll beckon you in”

her head snakes around what is she searching for

“oh woman you invisible…oh woman you pleasure”

her hands gather the veil off her face it is ending is it ending is she ending she is being lead, floating, away, by a man no less, taking her away, rescuing her, allowing her redemption salvation

she emerges unaided only to brush the elbow his elbow standing stumbling exiting the water

water runs off her body as she stands on the bank the roosting grey seagulls shuffling and fluttering their wings

the last thing i hear is the flap flap flapping of an excited sail as she is extracted from her sopping white robe

the wind continues the tide continues she has stopped only to start again later why is this kind of suffering expected to be sustainable?

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