Molting like Constantinople,
the sound of loneliness tonight:
some wives view the eclipse
from the shore & trade husbands,
not any ordinary husbands, but
primal anthropomorphisms of their
first desires. Just as the sirens begin,
each husband collapses—each sewn
with plankton & crushed pearls to the
unlocked arms of other wives, each wife
linked to another wife, each finger
stitched with nets to the forearms of
proud, marching husbands.
Photo By: utnapistim
