Seals at High Island

    The calamity of seals begins with jaws.

    Born in caverns that reverberate

    With endless malice of the sea's tongue

    Clacking on shingle， they learn to bark back

    In fear and sadness and celebration.

    The ocean's mouth opens forty feet wide

    And closes on a morsel of their rock.

    Swayed by the thrust and backfall of the tide，

    A dappled grey bull and a brindled cow

    Copulate in the green water of a cove.

    I watch from a cliff-top， trying not to move.

    Sometimes they sink and merge into black shoals；

    Then rise for air， his muzzle on her neck，

    Their winged feet intertwined as a fishtail.

    She opens her fierce mouth like a scarlet flower

    Full of white seeds； she holds it open long

    At the sunburst in the music of their loving；

    And cries a little. But I must remember

    How far their feelings are from mine marooned.

    If there are tears at this holy ceremony

    Theirs are caused by brine and mine by breeze.

    When the great bull withdraws his rod， it glows

    Like a carnelian candle set in jade.

    The cow ripples ashore to feed her calf；

    While an old rival， eyeing the deed with hate，

    Swims to attack the tired triumphant god.

    They rear their heads above the boiling surf，

    Their terrible jaws open， jetting blood.

    At nightfall they haul out， and mourn the drowned，

    Playing to the sea sadly their last quartet，

    An improvised requiem that ravishes

    Reason， while ripping scale up like a net：

    Brings pity trembling down the rocky spine

    Of headlands， till the bitter ocean's tongue

    Swells in their cove， and smothers their sweet song.