Corey Mesler
Squidink
I write with seawater
because I was told
that it’s closest to blood,
you know, chemically.
I dip my old quill into the
swirling tide. I had
in mind an ode
to a lost love, some golden-
faced girl with skin
like a silkie’s. Instead I find
myself gazing off toward
the horizon where a lone ship sits,
near the curvilinear cooling
towers of a nuclear power plant.
