almost two years on

I schedule time

I meet her

where the eagles glide

the gulls cry

and otters slip like mercury

 

the inlet empties

a river summoned by the moon

shofar of gravity

ultimate power play

laying bare the clam beds and oysters

filtering pain and impurity—and more pain

 

the cutthroat gorge on chum fry

airborne, defiant, then gone

back to the abyss

the river rushing to the Sound

but my radius is cut.

gravity un-chose me.

I’m an aeronautical accident

I say the word once

 

then again, again, again

muck on my boot

slate sun in my eye

and the gulls still cry

mom—mom—mom

there’s a way you say it

that you’ll never say again

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This article first appeared in Volume Thirteen, Issue Three of The Flyfish Journal.