Passage Poem by Rebecca Jackson


_Passage_

He gestured somewhat
grandly
and coffee sloshed the rim
of his mug like a tsunami
done in small.
“The world I have traveled
is not round,” he said musingly,
“it is not round”
and contemplated drowning grounds,
divining the future
from the wake of catastrophe.
His face fell into ruin
and he swam away
into a brief ocean–
the images of a life
spread upon the waves.
As he drifts now,
he believes himself wood,
current-charted,
hungry,
unwilling
to wash ashore

Passage poem copyright Rebecca Jackson


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