To understand Chipone
Chipone. Chipone. Chipone
Every letter said, every syllable stressed.
Again, you tug my arm.
I seek meaning, sift the mixed
messages this estuary sends
pattern insistent tides
consider current counter-swirls
float my paperboats of thoughts,
see them damp down, drown,
all lost in surface chop.
What if I dig, half-submerge on sandbars,
find their substance bubbled soft,
ragworm undermined and wont to shift?
I swim my sorries in these depths
as you mouthfeel this please of plosives, smile
to taste your own word’s salt and sweet.
We navigate the straits we find.
By Beth McDonough