we drift
because
the new moon towed
the little boat out too far to kick
our way home. The sea unlaced its shoes.
And we began to waft away, barefoot and
briny,
the little licking of white
in the seagull, white in the cloud. And the
windmill
of the sea kept rowing, the wind
cashmere with a rip in it. The sledge of blue
on blue, the ruined moon in the mirror. And a
hand
blooming in water, towing behind it
a small ribbon of fish. Maybe we’ll end up in
Tahiti,
the backs of our necks poultry raw,
the linen waves seeming to
clot where the boat tips.
Prussian
blue our bodies, Persian and rucked at the center,
the sun coming up in a pucker,
the way we lay length-wise together like piano keys.
Melissa Goodrich is a junior creative writing student at Susquehanna University and Co-Editor of the national undergraduate literary journal SU Review. She has a love for photography, the Pantoum, and finds all 101 2-letter legal Scrabble words fascinating (AA is Hawaiian lava, JO is sweetheart).