85
V o l . 13 N o . 2
David A. Goodrum
What We Bring to the Ocean the growing sounds
On our approach
of white crested waves
whomping distant outcrops so much w I n d b l o w n sand wide-winged gulls screeching
and the song of undulating water over rounded stones. Solitary listeners attracted by narcotic tunes we pause grief sinking into sand. Before our burden of inurned remains
Stacks and Spray
is tossed to the wind
we voice half-lives of remembrances caught in slack water pockets rough waves quieted for the moment the salty ebb laying gooseneck barnacles clamped limpets
bare
and the pantomime of tide pool stars.
Jim Hanlen
Between the Creases I stand behind Dad and talk to his caregiver, cutting carrot sticks. Dad sits at the dinner table, busy, shuffling his family photo cards. He stops and fingers a photo, a picture of my son, not seen in years. My son is balding now. Dad treasured him as a child.
Dad folds it over once, then folds it again, shaping a T crease. He folds it again, setting it aside.
Matt Witt