The pilot boats that
blinker the bay
greater ships to usher home
to sleep in slips and you
slide in beside me, to
chart the swells.
So standing stern we number
siren panes like
lighthouse lanterns, making
bright the wakeful yards between us
and the ferries
for which we once
spared sums untold.
Now darken this flag, these
imposter squares and in signal
bend red light
on our bows that want to break
in deeper seas: in here
you say, the narrow mouth may
swallow us whole.
About the author
A native Texan, Carly Wray has slept at a bus station in Tralee, a monastery in Venice, and many a Gulf Coast rest stop… Read the full bio
Issue 05 · June 2009
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
By Rimas Uzgiris
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen from the wires.
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
By Pui Ying Wong
Here’s the river I stepped in more than twice.// I can’t see them but I know the boats/
are going by in the sturdy fog...
By R L Swihart
And now you explore the hidden pockets and come up/
with a City Guide (in English) you picked up in Amsterdam./
Why did I keep that? Where were we going? But she’s/
not there to answer
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose