a rainwater sea laps within
the tire swing that dropped by the shore last evening. & you
running up to hug my legs, before you knew the word relief
could describe the red tide washing
hot across your cheeks. before you learn
other words to describe that same burning within. synapses
fizzling at the arc of a flare
watched from a sinking bow. this first thrill —
how it took you by surprise that being away from home
had been the harbor that stopped your sinking.
& now, home is slack water
before the discovery that some pleasures are symbiotic with risk
becomes your heading. but you’re still in galoshes,
as we gather the frayed ends
of snapped rope. i show you how to unravel
the strands, show you that mending
does not imply fidelity to the original.
we tie mooring buoys to each separate cord & let the currents
of wind knot them against the cypress, twine them together
as only eddies can do.
Lorrie Ness is a poet writing in a rural corner of Virginia. When she’s not writing, she can be found stomping through the woods, watching birds and playing in the dirt. Her work can be found in numerous journals, including THRUSH, Palette Poetry and Sky Island Journal. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021 and her chapbook, “Anatomy of a Wound” was published by Flowstone Press in July of 2021.
Quartz Literary 