Marc Huerta Osborn

itinerant, wingless

and belly-up in springtime, i tether
my name to the weather. i run
an anchor fathoms deep, but find
no sea floor. despair becomes boredom.
i blow bubbles from my—

who said anything about blowholes?      i am still livid
at the lack of awareness among angels
that the volcanic vacations of wealthy seraphim
continue to cleave heat-emitting crevices
into giant squid country. catastrophe.           no local god

wants to take the fleeing decapods
into their domain. also, as for the legality
of my own endangered species card:
i have no country!

a school of bioluminescent swordfish
passes by my raft. they listen to me
rant about being wingless
in a wingéd world.      about wanting

to raise hell against
unblinking wall
of sky.

you’re preaching to the choir
the swordfish croon, their blades rattling
in an underwater chain link
net. but together we are less

choir than chronic sound. watch us
unhinge our jaws. everything fits.

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Marc Huerta Osborn‘s poetry appears in Rust + Moth, The Acentos Review, Ghost City Review, Juked, and The Westchester Review, among other places.