“Perhaps,” they say,
“Perhaps he fell overboard.”
The hands that had wrapped, snake-like,
Around my throat many times before
But were warmed that night with blood –
Those hands could not grip the icy metal
When a wave surprised him.
Those hands clawed at his new wet ceiling,
Breached it to wave for help that never came.
Perhaps.
“Perhaps,” they say,
“Perhaps he was swallowed by debt,
And then, in turn, swallowed by a tiger.”
I chew this suggestion over,
Think of him ripped into bitesize pieces
And choked down by a dissatisfied tiger.
I look at the stripes he perforated
My skin with, and I like the idea.
I can see him slaughtered by a tiger,
And perhaps I did.
Perhaps.
Molly Burns - poet 