The Skylark Prize

Victoria Rose Witte

 

Love, Cards, in the Atlantic

My cousin and I race across the
Misbalanced rocks of these familiar
Cliffs watching the herring gulls scatter
As the courageous blackbacks
Stand tall. She says
The rocks become smoother when
They feel our feet. She thinks
This tranquil place welcomes us and it waits
Through the winter in a restless hibernation,
and when it eyes the paint-chipped
Schooner dancing with the waves
our island sings aloud
Its impeding harbor embracing us.

She is wrong and listens
Quietly as I tell her that we
Wait for the island.
I explain how our body grows
As our limbs flail in the icy Atlantic.
I tell her that our souls are rejuvenated
As we laugh around the wooden table,
Throwing memories down in spades.

 

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