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Bobby Parrott

Sunken Cathedrals

 for Claude Debussy


It’s how I know of the design— 

How I see the ruins, hear 

the cerulean light as it trembles

from disembodied. I almost let go 

when a shimmer of harp strings


evokes my submarine child, whispers

my secret name. Your notes 

urge forward the soft harpoon 


before my mother’s breast. I fill 

on the galactic milk of Proteus, wheel 

in your icy inversions of moonlight, 

sup from a brimming carafe 

of Clair de Lune. Delicate thimbled 


pulses held in her thin fingers,

the Girl with the Flaxen Hair 

sighs her breath into the Afternoon 

of a Faun. Across the aperture 

of her flute an arabesque, a curvature 


of glass violets— yet from where 

this melody? I shudder open, 

porous, unvalved in the language 

of watery currents. How a fabric

of Reverie pulls my shape, voices


my arrival, this planet of suns.

Your baton elongates, stairwells 

inward, note by uncanny note

until the melody's ancient future


finds me here, its iris a portal 

home. Snowflakes Dancing

their warm submersion, singing me

from under this house of bones.

Jim Zola 675DC4F9-2C15-4B6C-B6DA-57E28D416349.jpeg
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