Chris Roberts-Antieau © 2008 All Rights Reserved
This White Be a Nighthouse
The moon, swollen and without feet,
walked all over the sea.
The sea oats pretended to be moved
by our presence. Despite the ocean
within breathing distance,
we were suffocates. The sweet rot
of seaweed suffused the air.
After the storm surge,
only the wind remained, reminding us
of what hadn’t changed.
It doesn’t matter what’s true.
A marriage doesn’t end on the beach
this close to midnight,
not with seashells breaking
into smaller and smaller promises
under our bare feet. The lives we desire
lord over us like angels
waiting to intervene. Our begging
is only the beginning—a drowning
salted with few ecstatic sounds.
Fritz Ward's poems have appeared in more than fifty journals, including American Arts and Commentary, Agni, Swink, Salt Hill, Blackbird, Diagram and the Journal. He holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of North Carolina Greensboro. He currently lives in Philadelphia and Santa Rosa, California.
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