BROWSE Columns
✕
I remember when
Jupiter and Saturn
saved each other
from a fiery death.
You and I were together
then — two plumes
of Pompeian red.
At sea, I saw you
in every direction.
Time passed.
We’re smaller now.
Night by night,
the sky widens.
Arthur Dove paints marine waves.
Between swells of blue manganese,
clouds (waters of the sky) bloat
extravagantly. A big ol’
moon rides a low-slung
branch, barely, a boat.
Mast, a little wobbly,
snaky wood buoyed
by the dark rippling sea.
Spills leap overboard.
A boat with no sails is an idea
of a boat. On the idea of a boat
I am taken away.
Helen Hawley is a visual artist and author of the forthcoming poetry chapbook, Thing, Think. She was born in tent in Missouri. Her artwork has been shown in Chicago, New York, and Beijing. She likes to audio stream live weather broadcasts and practice writing and drawing with her non-dominant hand.
