In which a woman asks for help then crabs eat her body or nothing at all happens while I dead man’s float in the sea

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We are                       the mysteries of the world. Is                                           an act of refusal.
     I’m in love with the idea of knowing but not with the act.

This is        Earhart. We        must have help. We can’t                                               much longer.

So, is it called disappearance or death? Let me rephrase: Is there a difference between                                 

                                                                                                                                 and end.

 
Something morbid happens to a woman. Or: We don’t know what happened to her.                I didn’t

                but her name matters. I        woman. Is that a past? Or.

Really, what occurs                         taking water in fast. We are myself and. I wasn’t alone. I was left

                                  alone.             Which one matters?

Maybe         someday. The water               crashing. The water        drowns me out. You can

             hear me. You.                hear me.

The poem is about pretense            unknown        refusal            hope.

Isn’t it? Do you put your fingers in your ears?

Terrible things happen.                              We don’t know what happens.         

Can you read me? This is        Earhart. Or. Tell        all right.

Mary Rose Manspeaker (they/them) is an editor, educator, and mothman enthusiast born and raised in West Virginia. They currently reside in Brooklyn, where they work for Three Rooms Press and are pursuing an MFA with The Writer's Foundry at St. Joseph's College. In past lives they have been a cellist, a shoe salesman, and a Cleveland Cavaliers hype man.

 

Twitter: @MaryRoseMan

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