vocals rise night static the beach house we
sway to midi music call ourselves karaoke
machines what disappointment to not be
whole humid June familiar shadows
encroach the move I crack my song an egg
to thee to thaw cold exhibitions of the
bottle another popped Corona to thirst
for grand experiences cheaply the tide
a tape loop I do not sing the steady
hand of a lyric but rather the water
(originally published in Sybil Journal, Summer 2020)
It comes in waves, the grief, though you laugh
as you say so, because we are in the Atlantic,
children again, uppercutting large tides,
and I never learned to swim, but the saying–
the metaphor– is true, the water is relentless,
and we were states away from the hospital,
where your father was, when you got the
call, and later, in our hotel’s game room,
there was a balancing act– you, your family,
the ping-pong paddles on the black table,
the plastic balls rolling slowly onto the floor
at the end of another meaningless game, the
bouncing, then physics, entropy ending–
how else to reconcile lost time? This dusting,
this airing out, now, swimsuits soaked from
the salt of the sea, this fabric, this residue
dripping off of this vacation into the old
Civic, the broken A/C, the windows’ open
breeze, silence of the road lodged between
green hills, so endless, our breathing.
(originally published in Creative Writing Ink’s Monthly Contest, November 2019 Winner)