|
Michael Goodfellow |
|
Our Favorite Beach September, and we were both back in the hometown we had left four years ago for school. One morning after a storm, we walked the path between the beach and the forest it bordered, bark torn off pine trees, sand dried to all of their trunks and seaweed on the wild roses. After a long stretch of silence, you said the waves had carved the name of the hurricane into the land, into every tree. Between the sea and the sky, this was for love: dead seagulls washed up thinking earth was the air, buoys floating unanchored in tide pools. I said it's only the hurricane that carved its own name in the land, for the sky has no lover. We wade in past the sharp black rocks, floating Jewelry Box Poem In the living room she tells stories to her daughter's friends while she makes tea. Her first words, her first poem pub- lished, she can't remem- ber the title. She leads herself back to her own childhood, her grade-nine-year in nine- teen seventy-two: four lines about a jewelry box that she lost her copy of. She only re- members the poem end- ing as the ruby- studded cover closed. [Index] |
|
Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
|
|