A Karen Chamisso poem

 

The little vessel went down down down the hatch

And like the most luckless blade turned up

Bobbing on the shore’s of the Piggy’s Eldorado.

 

She had built her story out of bits of a maze

Pursued in the dodgier reaches

Of old issues of  Vogue. Haven’t we all

 

Been there? Untying our stays

Peering at the damage fading

In the mirror’s aristocratic depths

 

Our little vessel – vessel of blood, vessel of bile,

Vessel of flesh, vessel of lips, nails, all the peripherals –

Sees that rise and shine won’t cut it.

 

But what else is there?

- Karen Chamisso