having boarded with
the others,
a girl sails to
the grave of digressions.
given binoculars not
her own, she sees
what they claim are
the original
graves of all those, like
herself, without
a language to
count. she says,
how can this be? &
focuses the binoculars
on a sandy mound
not quite 10’ high
and 20’ long,
strangely out of place
in an otherwise
gorgeous but remote
land. of course, she
does not believe them
& so far has not
picked up on
the not-so-subtle
clues they have dropped
along the way.
for example,
a clue of purpose
painted on
the gangplank. a clue of
origin as they sail away
from land. clarity
as they hand her the binoculars
to see for
herself. she looks hard,
long, puzzling over
the dimensions. is it
an illusion? she says.
she touches the coin buried
in her pocket & remembers
the boxes she has carried
from the garage to her kitchen,
down to the basement & back up
to the garage. she does not know
where the boxes came
from. she does not look
inside of them. she does not
want to carry them up
& down stairs, from garage
to kitchen to basement
& back again. she sweeps
the corners, hides
under dust, grabs
the rag & spreads her duty
across the ceiling 12’ above
her reaching
to touch the dome
she dreams
to encase the images
she will not
forget: the sailor
who entices her aboard &
tricks her name. the palm
in the arch of her back, gently
pushing her out
the door & the lock
clicking behind her. she
picks up the binoculars beside
her bed & watches
the ceiling move away
from land. she walks
up the gangplank with
the others. they stretch
to embrace
her. she nods &
turns. alone, she says,
only alone. she walks
clear-headed in a blue
sundress, w/spaghetti
straps & a hat festooned
with flowers—zinnias &
marigolds. she arrives
on time & stands
straight as a flagpole.
the trumpet calls.
the flag curls in
the breeze. she is the only
one wrapped in coins, like
a costume of gold. how
can he miss her? she holds
back, watching him
watching her. he tells
her when to look. guides
her hand. turns
the wheel. pushes the scopes
to fit her eye
space. she touches
his forehead, lock
of hair. she gives him
the hat, tells
him to put it on.
you look ravishing, she says.
your beauty is unsurpassed.
where there is her blue
dress, w/spaghetti straps
she uses both hands
to tell the difference
between clarity &
origin, watches
the sandy mound keep
time with them, their slow
pace perfectly
matched. if time passes,
she does not see it. he
holds her steady. she
loves his beauty.
she relinquishes the boxes,
the ones piled so high
they reach the dome
of unmatched
continents. she pulls
out the coin
buried in her pocket &
gives it to him.
he says, thank you.
she names her purpose
& smiles.
Originally published in Guillinna on Four Wheels by Sandra Squire Fluck. Available on Apple Books and Amazon Kindle.