The shore rose up and found us, an island narrowly,
in truth a private compost heap pricking
the surface of the sea. The sound: melamine
etching a tree the bees have wholly turned

to honey, the lurch worse than a flock of
vengeful cuckolds though our vessel
dwarfed the land one hundredfold. To disembark
on this microscopic spit? What roots

accept such shallowness and still bear fruit?
We got out. Knee deep in resurrection muck.
Sifted. Raked. Stayed. Built hills of guilt
and forgiveness wherever there was space.

Sarah Wolfson

< BACK | NEXT >

TABLE OF CONTENTS