You reach in to lace edged surf,
snatch his crescent moon from her crib.
The water is too warm. Is there a pulse?
As if to offer milk you hold him close.
Shrieks attract more of your species who snap sacred flesh
reflecting a million gold and silver scales.
Such curious smiles you bait ball his body.
When the last air left froth corrupted lungs
No one heard his mother’s cries. Still you hug
that strong urge to capture an all-important picture.
Yes that one—long beak to human nose.
The one you delete after he is dumped
like a plastic toy in the footprint
you leave behind for Argentine waves to collect.


© Natalia Spencer. 2016


2 thoughts on “Franciscana

    • Thanks for you comment and leaving so many likes. Poetry is a hard craft to master. What you read has often been edited so that clichés and overused rhyme does not appear in the poem. I will certainly look at your work and leave suggestions if appropriate.

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