October 2015
I am a student at the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program, where I study poetry and translation. My work was selected in a contest hosted by Missouri State University Press to be included in the anthology Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors,
(volume 3). My poetry and translations have appeared in Cardinal Sins, Boston Thought, Malpais Review and many other joutnals, both online and print.
(volume 3). My poetry and translations have appeared in Cardinal Sins, Boston Thought, Malpais Review and many other joutnals, both online and print.
Playground
on a hill overlooking a harbor
The startled dock
alive with them,
fishermen hosing
down their decks:
spraying side-to-side
they blast the scum,
attentive not to slip−
surprise of foghorn−
steadily aggressive
hosing.
One just there
on the bow−
gone before
I take a breath
or can
describe him.
No one moving
stays long enough.
How long
since we’ve worked
together the way
these fishermen work
their boat, washing,
making it
into a thriving thing−
Foghorn again−
Another fisherman goes
towards the bow
without holding
the banister.
I cannot catch a boat
in my imagination
on which I’d sail
with you.
In the pounding
of sharp sunrays,
the hose line
looks tangled−
The fisherman
seems snared,
kicking frantically.
I haven’t seen
the one
who was at the bow,
not for minutes.
Through a porthole,
two others
touch at their faces,
mouthing something
(actually they’re eating)−
I’m sick
of paying attention.
All seem the same.
It’s too hot
to swing here,
pushing off
with more momentum
to get a better look
at the boat.
Why bother
hosing down the deck,
why bother
leaving the bridge
for the bow,
why do I miss you now,
but not then,
the old you,
the you I molded
and remade
again, and again,
until you hardened
into something else
entirely, more truly
and more strange.
Why not look at squirrels
hurrying for tree trunks,
or look across at islands,
or wonder why
that particular crowd
is spearing
sun-dried trash
on a far shoreline,
or if I’m capable
of recognizing you
better or at all
from this distance.
on a hill overlooking a harbor
The startled dock
alive with them,
fishermen hosing
down their decks:
spraying side-to-side
they blast the scum,
attentive not to slip−
surprise of foghorn−
steadily aggressive
hosing.
One just there
on the bow−
gone before
I take a breath
or can
describe him.
No one moving
stays long enough.
How long
since we’ve worked
together the way
these fishermen work
their boat, washing,
making it
into a thriving thing−
Foghorn again−
Another fisherman goes
towards the bow
without holding
the banister.
I cannot catch a boat
in my imagination
on which I’d sail
with you.
In the pounding
of sharp sunrays,
the hose line
looks tangled−
The fisherman
seems snared,
kicking frantically.
I haven’t seen
the one
who was at the bow,
not for minutes.
Through a porthole,
two others
touch at their faces,
mouthing something
(actually they’re eating)−
I’m sick
of paying attention.
All seem the same.
It’s too hot
to swing here,
pushing off
with more momentum
to get a better look
at the boat.
Why bother
hosing down the deck,
why bother
leaving the bridge
for the bow,
why do I miss you now,
but not then,
the old you,
the you I molded
and remade
again, and again,
until you hardened
into something else
entirely, more truly
and more strange.
Why not look at squirrels
hurrying for tree trunks,
or look across at islands,
or wonder why
that particular crowd
is spearing
sun-dried trash
on a far shoreline,
or if I’m capable
of recognizing you
better or at all
from this distance.
©2015 Domenic J. Scopa