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