by Sarah Stockton
Remember exchanging those lists of past lovers?
I left a few names out- revisions forthcoming.
Did you like that photo I posted of my mother?
I look like her right now, no filter. I wish
you were here, wrapped in your silk shawl
like a dragonfly in the dawn.
I am taking your advice and leaving this place.
We were up all night, dancing wild until
I fell overboard in disgrace. The houseboat leaks
but your diaries are still safe. I’m banned
from the docks until I pay the rent.
I guess I should have lead with that.
Do you think it’s time for me to go?
An old man is throwing fish heads at the gulls, dead eyes
glassy and spinning now toward heaven, now the sea.
The harbormaster turns away when I pass him
on the dock. Please, please. Write me into your story.
The sky is broken- our houseboat, sinking into the deep.
After various long-term stints in large urban universities as staff and adjunct while also freelancing as an editor, nonfiction writer and raising two kids, Sarah Stockton now lives in the rural Pacific Northwest, where she practices her vocation as a spiritual director and writes poems. More of her work can be found via @sarahpoetica.