Row along, children, nothing to see here,
it’s not an oar that floats in the seaweed
but a branch, slender as hope,
that stifled cry was a gull—

how much time have I spent reassuring you?
probably not enough;

a beached boy lying face down is not a boy,
but a large doll,
eyes closed
in sleep;

waves turn his face
from the pitiless sun,
keep his blue shorts on,
one last kindness.
Stars wince.

 

Forum Comments:A Well-Lit Ocean
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Trish has poems published or forthcoming in Right Hand Pointing, Blast Furnace Press, Off the Coast, Eunoia, Fat Damsel, the late Seattle Poetry Review and others. She divides her time between Seattle and Hawaii. Right Hand Pointing will publish a chapbook of her short poems in December 2017.

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