Sunday Morning

Sunday Morning

The waves beat on to some tidal heartbeat
that heaves a thrum through the world
like a funeral hymn.

She watches his boat plummet
and dip and twist and fall out of sight
into some white noise nowhere
between water and air, where
he is as fragile as scattered fish bones.

Sometimes she feels like a light house,
begging him home. Her pale, pulsing throat
is a siren’s call to shore—a place for this sailor

to rest his weary head and forget
that cold stench of the ocean.

Her moon-white hands have never been anchors,
no matter how hard they are pressed against
the hazy window splitting her from salt air,
from his hands, coarse and heavy with a world
that she will never see.

The waves beat on in time with her heartbeat
and sometimes she feels he doesn’t know
the difference between the two.

Katie is a sophomore working on earning her B.A in Theatre Education with a concentration in Acting. This is her very first publication of anything, and one of her very first poems. Currently, she is studying abroad at the Kasteel Well program, and is basking in the abundant cheeses and new opportunities there.

Social Work

You squat over the lip of a sidewalk, your tiny feet separated for proper balance. When it rains, the worms are freed from flowerbed soil. They always, always emerge to swim in the collecting waters. You’re a social worker, a professional strictly scheduled to work on rainy mornings in a pair of purple cotton pants that softly outline the globe of your Pampers. You rub one muddy finger against a shirt already slickened to your nipples. Continue reading