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Beth
Walls can talk but nature cannot. So I stay
here and take in the boats sketched across
the sea, the bridge beneath my feet, and the weeds: that bend to your will, in an ephemeral
genuflection, begging you to hold their hands.
Milky waters remain murky from the cursed
stain of poetry. The piecemeal docks above
a battalion of rocks lean against houses,
where it is sinful not to have a green light
oscillating. Scruffy silhouettes carved into
the night walk along the dwindling road that
brings us to her. Her. We named her Beth.
She is a statue without any signification.
It is an enigma how quickly her blue color
became copper. She sits alone at the bottom
of a see-saw, forsaken with no one to balance
out her weight. And so stays where she was
made. I can only hope she is okay with that.
I remove the twigs intruding on her esoteric
cul-de-sac, and we decide she is a memorial
to child-like time. We create our days with a fresh kill, like vigilantes engaged in organized
crime. Someday we will return to Beth, and our words will teeter euphoniously—like karaoke.
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I wrote this poem after a night of exploration with a dear friend. It was night, and we wandered around a park that I had been frequenting since I was a kid. But that night, the park seemed so different and new, and I saw parts of it I’d never previously seen. This poem is me trying to encapsulate the beauty, the intrigue, and the holiness of that night.