Jonathan Thang

The Titanic Sails at Dawn

To Wes

Many nights, many nights, Cold burst appendix, heat at the source. The sun, she melts the ice in my cup and I look to the moon for a kiss.

The high tides of stretchers and chlorine-smell of turpentine seashells luminescent under a belly-full of iced wine served on the bridge accommodating both prisoner and king.

Where did she spend her summers? Nights spent painting my features under dim candlelight, etched in her mind, The touch of her frostbitten skin on mine.

Poor cartography, the curse of men and women who have never had the luxury of being lost fending for themselves the feeling of drowning in a heated bathtub cooled with flavored snow cones.

Will she remember me like I do? The taste of autumn, leading explicitly into winter seasoned with tarragon and chervil, Served on the mustard bed of my chambers.

Even in death, the smell of salt lingers, distinctly human the sensation of dried sweat contradicting the frozen bedhead of mermaids in perpetual agony at the peppery taste of tear gas and rowboats.

Jonathan Thang

The cool breeze of invincibility, Like a speeding motorcyclist in stalled traffic, Alive again at the wringing of his leather jacket From her wrists. Will she also live forever?

But he is not invincible, the cold touch of Death encroaches upon him like everyone else. His memories, his secrets, his back pages of unfinished love poems and valentines will be lost to time, unwashed ashore.