Daphne Schiller
The Night Shift
At dusk
I go to work in an egg,
paddle its speckled boat
into the turbulent sea. I call
to my sisters, scarfed in mist
who answer in gannet voices.
My grey hair streams like a sail
as salt whitens my cheeks.
My craft protects me. I am a foetus
curled inside, hatching trouble.
We travel in darkness, raising the winds,
spinning nightmares out of the moon.
We make waves. At dawn, splintered wrecks
bob in our wake. Whirlpools
dance the bodies down
to restless slithery beds.
Our work is done,
the ocean full of thin cries.
Page(s) 7
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