After three cool days at the bottom,

she’s back at the surface.

The same bones

but her flesh is bloated, less dense.

She doesn’t move.

The current won’t come near her.

A sideways gravity pulls her toward shore.

Her nose is out of the water now,

fluttered by air 

that was breath in an earlier time.

Now, it gathers at a nostril

but nothing sucks it in.

The lungs have all they need.

They’ve swallowed death.


Author Bio:

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review, and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline, and International Poetry Review.