no words in a book

i see him for half a second
as the bass thrashes against
bistineau’s surface.

i feel him struggling, slimy,
refusing to give in, he speckles my hands
red with scales and blood.

i hear him at the dinner table
laughing with my children at the stories
he already knows.

he speaks to me, through cicada
song, on my evening walk,
saying, She’s waiting.

About

Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

Posted in Poetry