Poem of the Week

Now that I live by the sea, I am never sure what the day will bring. Gulls stomp on the roof like heavy-footed prowlers causing me to wake in alarm. Broken shells litter the garden: clam, oyster and torn crab pincers serrated like nutcrackers. I'm standing at the window, sipping my morning coffee, when I see her. My mother is rowing against the current in the rain. I cup my hands and yell, Come in for a gin and tonic. It's not that awful rowing toward God, nothing that dramatic. It's just her, after all these years, the creak of oarlocks and a small wake trailing behind. Like the hapless Aeschylus I walk bareheaded, forgetting to look up at what might be hurtling toward me.