Who would have carried it this far,
up the crest between watersheds,
then quit before the downhill?
It doesn’t seem old enough
to have been stranded
when this land was covered
by shallow waters
that buckled and rose,
dividing the water in two.
Every year it sheds a board.
The paint muted,
drawn into surrounding foliage.
If the trees know the story, they aren’t saying.
A trunk has pushed through the hull
pinning the bow to the hillside.
So it can hardly be the lifeboat
we will step into
when the waters fill the valley again
that will allow us to float away.
Alison Hicks is the author of poetry collections You Who Took the Boat Out and Kiss, a chapbook Falling Dreams, and a novella, Love: A Story of Images. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Eclipse, Gargoyle, Green Hills Literary Lantern, and is forthcoming in Poet Lore. She is founder of Greater Philadelphia Wordshop Studio, which offers community-based writing workshops.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.