Summer nights remind her to hate you. Make her think
of things you say are gone but are still sleeping.
Leviathans, you say.
She keeps having the same dream
standing tall, she throws a mirror off the roof.
Mid-arch, it becomes a broken body.
By the time in lands, only glass again.
They are different for you.
Those things that lurk underneath.
You told her once that you could show her Rhode Island.
She promised she wouldn’t leave in the morning.
New England never happened.
She wouldn’t stay for breakfast: you expected
this. Felt the leaving in her body as she twisted
away in the night. Vertebrae became cherrystones, herded and trapped--
that ladder of bones, now trails from fiddler crabs; the ones that ran the base
of your brick seawall in letters sent later. Swimming
in the tide pools of your collarbones, her hair, damp
after, seaweed. She stayed long enough
for a shower. You went north for the summer.
MAYA BEERBOWER is a recent graduate of the MFA program at The New School in New York City. Originally from North Carolina, she now resides and works in Philadelphia. Her poems have been published in Atlantis, Swamp Lily Review, and Yellow Flag Press' Vision/Verse exhibition.
READ AND LISTEN
Issue 2 Playlist