Little Red Boat (poem)
Updated: Apr 23
Sometimes a black hand reaches out from under the earth and grips my frozen lungs Pulling them down and squeezing, until a drop of something feeds it misshapen mouth. At home, the baby and the bathwater are both the same shade of gray. In the late March morning the first light turns the tree tops red… In this next pause, there is a space, where the tree asks the rock, “May I?” with such politeness any request is granted. there’s no I that can kill or die. there’s as much beauty in the field as in my breath, high or low the little red boat stays afloat.