TOSSED UP

The stench is unmistakable,

a  shape on the black strand

half-buried in wet sand,

my dog  runs and rubs her back on it

paws in bliss cycling the sky,

I run too and shout “Away”

and she goes, reluctantly.

 

The ancestral need in an instant

of covering one’s smell

with a rotten other, wanting on instinct

to merge in the rot, the living with the dead.

The basic wish of plunging into what  

is gone and gnawed by the currents,

getting the scent, the tang

and the whisper of the whirlpool.

 

A spring sun shone on the beach

this morning, with a haze

like a choir slightly ablaze.

The sea roar stared from its maze.

Clouds cruising, glorious day

for a first swim.

The carcass was there, behind me.

I didn’t look at what it looked like.