By Cat Dixon
It was deemed necessary
to evacuate the submarine—
oxygen levels low and water
flowed through the vents.
Legends of ghost ships with ghost mates
circulated—men who hunkered in the head,
munching tangerines as they flipped through
ream after ream of blank saturated
pages as if reading magazines.
Our motley crew caught without a ship,
from a distance, looked like
little dots keen for water—fish
fighting the net, the hook, the land.
What we sought in the waves had
rusted and sunk. What we found
inside of each was rot. I wished
for a massive yacht—sails that touch
the sky—eighty meters long with
an inflated lifeboat like a tumor at its side.
Cat Dixon (she/her) is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet’s Haven, 2019). Recent poems have appeared in LandLocked, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Abyss & Apex. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.