I.

The kayak eases in—
its green plastic sides scrape rock
as the rower digs
her oar through mud—and sunrise-
pink waves embrace the vessel.

A lonely train howls
its morning echo, crossing
the old Rockville Bridge
where the golden plovers catch
insects drawn to mossy walls.

An old man watches
the fishers work from his porch,
watches the train creep,
watches the kayaker rest,
adjusts his cap to the sun.

II.

Bass kiss the surface,
gulp E. coli microbes.
They process the toxin
throughout their cold bloodstreams
as they wriggle off to hunt.

Motor boats leave shore
laden with coolers of bait
bought from gas stations.
Their rods are cast, aimed at pools
where old tyres—and the bass—wait.

Children wade knee deep
in the waves, scooping pebbles,
rough beach glass, and roots
of water lilies. Or swim
crawls above the undertow.

I was premature. Born yellowish,
butterfly kicking forward, already
homesick when they snapped the cord.

They placed me in the sun to bake
beneath the maples on their new porch
where I could speak to the trees with cries

and hear myself attempt the forest sounds.
My first language: shhhhh-ahhh-shhheeee.
Wind teaching a child to listen

to suburban alienation.
Each caterpillar inching on my skin
was a friend to gather, greet;

each cardinal was a scarlet blur
of echoing skylight, calling me back
from the harsh kick of a car engine.

My ears were tuned to the patter of rain
on the porch boards, lullabies from my grandma.
She and I sang to hummingbird whirs,

to the swish of a grey-squirrel tail.
We were small together in this home place,
content with our brief niche of time.

“The Porch” was previously published in Banshee.