Block Island Trip

by | May 16, 2017 | Poetry

 

You have our mother’s face
and hide it when water breaks
against you, and you flinch.
It’s the horizon that sees you then
instead of my camera.
You keep the secret
of what you look like
when no one’s watching.

You walk out into the water
and go very far
until I can no longer see
the bladed curve of your back.

There is a line stretching
from me to you and you
to something in the past
you have not named.
With great effort you lean
into September and the ocean
is so loud
that when I call
you cannot hear your own name.

 

Leah Welch studied poetry at Chatham College and is currently residing in Los Angeles where she writes poetry, plays, and screenplays. She dreams of finding a dog and owning a truck.

 

0 Comments

Submissions are open for our December launch. Please visit our submissions page for guidelines.

Submit your work
Share This