Drowned Sailor

The fish are garrulous. They tell me stories,
shark-toothed rumors whispered through the kelp-
vines, hurtful. They don't feel sorry
for shipwrecked sailors waiting for help,
for rescue that never comes.
I float without volition,
like draggled feathers or a swirl of scum,
drowned messenger without a mission.
Though the unbeating heart still craves
home, my swollen limbs won't stir
to what purpose?-- a terrestrial grave?
Decay in open water is what I'd prefer.
I want my bones to coralize. I wish
my flesh to be eaten by the gossiping fish.