I remember how light
shot through it:
layers of algae lacing
up the edges, the gurgling
of water pumps, filters
churning. Sunny
always & how I longed
for them & how silent I remained
against that longing.
How silent they were:
mouths working
the clear glass so I could see
on the other side
both my reflection
& the rough coins
of their tongues, shells
spinning inward
around the hidden parts
of their bodies. I waited.
Under the cathedral ceiling,
I wondered at the smoothness
of their movements,
how they slung
their weighted shells.
Looking back, I understand
I could have asked for one,
could have watched
my grandfather prepare
a jar, filled with enough water
to make the trip home. I see now
the delicacy of such requests—
tight spiral of my voice,
the fear of wanting.
–
Meg Stout’s poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Zócalo Public Square, Mid-American Review, and the Maine Sunday Telegram/Portland Press Herald. A graduate of the M.F.A. program at Warren Wilson College, she lives in Midcoast Maine.