I grew up with clouds
full of promise. White cotton.
I always drew them that way,
mouth open. When they didn’t
rain for the longest time
I closed my mouth.
Dead birds on the sand dune have come clean,
the child I loved has gone too far, love
as far as time goes . . . and the lighthouse
clear-eyed through the fog
points out just how bulky the night is
(an eye for an eye-lid)
a star of sorts, winking at the storm
(so a child might laugh), but the child is gone
where boats go out for mackerel in the dark
(but you can’t see the deck lights winking back)
Editor’s Note: The title of this poem is a command to do something, and it grabs the attention, giving the reader a framework upon which to place the imagery of the poem.
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