In His Boat

Jenna Bumgardner

I dream Northridge is at the water’s front,

And what buildings you see from your window

Are now towering, sky-scraping, yet blunt,

Upright ships splintered from the undertow.

Cowered in father’s hexagonal boat,

From a sea glass bottle pressed to my lips

You pour the marine layer as we float,

My fingers clasp the moon in an eclipse.

And in this cruel, remote vision of mine

My callous blouse is the mast which you furl.

A deep blue, distant storm becomes my shrine

And contours the shape of some unnamed girl.

You whisper, “Rien n’arrete nos esprits,

Between the devil and the deep blue sea.”


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