The sun glints a wicked light
on the whitecaps today.
the landline shimmers,
the quivering mouth
of a lovesick sailor who keeps
his girl’s likeness folded up
and pressed to the inside of
his cheek like chewing tobacco.
the fabric of my dress clings to
the shape I make, long like a breath
arched like the branch of something
ancient. The day is not as long
as the one before – the sun sets earlier
with each pass. When the moon hangs
high above me held in the shapeless arms
of the clouds, a hand slips itself into mine
from the bough above my head. My love’s
cheek presses to mine, her body draped
over the ship’s bow. The drift of her hair
in the wind disturbs the ambit, goldbrown
curls braid with the horizon. I wish, as I do
each night, I could turn my head to meet her.
Instead, we watch the water together,
feel the swell of the ocean’s breath below.
Anna Laura Falvey (she/her) is a Brooklyn-based poet and theater-maker. She is a graduate of Bard College with degrees in Classics & Written Arts, with a specialty in Ancient Greek tragedy and poetry, where she spent her college career blissfully hidden behind the Circulation and Reference desks at the Stevenson Library, where she worked. Anna Laura is currently serving as an ArtistYear Resident Teaching Artist and Senior Fellow, teaching Poetry in Queens, NY. Her written work is forthcoming with Querencia Press, & Bloodletter Magazine, and has appeared in Ev0ke Magazine, Club Plum, Caustic Frolic, Ouch! Collective, multiple issues of Deep Overstock, Icarus Magazine, and has been featured on the Deep Overstock podcast.