Issue 13

Autumn 2014



At the coast the sky is a makeshift
    mirror of the craggy land
lit green and ochre. A leave and return        
    of ferries keep a shifting time. I sit to write
swill words around my mouth
    like a Rioja –
disorientation, hallucination,
    the semaphore of restless boat sails.
I bite my lip, and choose unheimlich.

    While sandpipers scuffle the surface        
for what lies beneath, a storm rolls in        
    on troubled light. I am succumbing
to the pewter sky and sea,
and think of leaving him to the Furies,
    of letting the night alter
the grey of his eyes –
    I’d like to hear him moan again
            across the strand.


Maria Isakova Bennett