poem

here is another poem by Catherine Barnett

Site, IV

At the bottom of the ocean—
even there—
the bones are picked clean.
I suppose this must be common,
this relentless cleaning,
and the tiny sequin
tossed into the bin of dirty water
and our eyes gouged out with looking.
Oh.
Child.
When did the child die?
And how white are the whale’s bones.
There, down there.
How did you wait for me this morning.
Oh sequin.
Eye.
Our hearts evolved
from our throats—