Moon bones worm through the dark
waters. The sea at night. This channel
is deep enough to draw the biggest fish.
I see scales, but I imagine bones: slim,
slipping through currents. If I could pick
which to touch, and when, I’d thrust
my hands into the black, hold the bodies
I am afraid of, the shapeshifters. I’d
drop myself like bait, let my flesh
worry and pucker at the pull
of the tide, where shadows the size
of ships drift, drift, and withdraw.
Annette Frost is a Boston-based poet and the Director of the Favorite Poem Project at Boston University, where she received her MFA in poetry. Frost’s poems have been published in numerous journals and anthologies including Epiphany’s The Writers Studio at 30, Strange Horizons, and Nature Inspired anthologies. She lives in Acton, MA, with her husband and their two cats. She believes in the importance of acknowledging both feelings and climate change.
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