Underwater New York

What is Left by Jen Fitzgerald

When you dumped your engine
to be gnawed at by the ocean,
what better place than near
the pillars that held the floors
that held the beds of the dying
children?  Their foundations
pulled back to the center
of the earth with that ebbing
and flowing, that cistern
of empty vessels and decay.

Everything here holds something,
in one way or another.  Empty
space between them and nothing
like the empty space between
what we say and what we mean.
We all spiral inwards.

You speak in quatrains,
every third sentence a lie,
every forth sentence strewn,
lying limp, like abandoned jeans
that faintly hold the form of
their deserters.

One hundred yards away
umbrellas defy the sun
and bodies sway with
the water, resisting
the shoves of waves.

A postcard unchanged
for decades, their smiles
burnt to paper like skin
burnt from sun. In this
memory, a waft of sun
block fills their nostrils.

They won’t look to their left;
won’t see us and our abandoned
stack of rocks. They decided
to forget that years ago.

But we will hold it up,
you and I; rebuild
with crab shells
and beer cans. A castle
of broken and strewn.
Press your body
on this side and wait
until someone notices.

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About the Author

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Jen Fitzgerald will begin working toward her MFA at Lesley University in 2012.  She is a freelance writer living on Staten Island.  This is her first publication.

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Tags: Cedar Grove Beach, Crabs, Jen Fitzgerald, Pants, Staten Island