Wrecked, Off Pavilion Beach
Beyond the rind of beach left after the ocean’s done
with its sucking and given its brine back
to the harbor, offshore the Greasy Pole extends,
where sons of fishermen stumble drunk
and raw into the sea in a contest to grab the flag
waiting at the end of a slippery horizontal,
cracking ribs and worse, wearing dresses they picked out
sober at the vintage clothing store on Main,
the only sanctioned time to flaunt and saunter, to feel
satin hug their hips. On Portagee Hill,
widow’s walks blackly squat, wordlessly warning.
I always thought they looked gorgeous up there,
scrolling the dark iron of their domestic
crow’s nests. I wanted a cage to roam, looking
for love, a husband, even a dead one,
I could mourn. There’s romance in being lost,
tossed into a greeny hereafter, sinking
into oblivion. I used to think love should be
like that, all stormy and unfathomable.
I, too, bought my show time dress at Bananas,
for Senior Prom, 1989. I, too, fell, drunk,
until a part of me I couldn’t wait to lose was gone.
with its sucking and given its brine back
to the harbor, offshore the Greasy Pole extends,
where sons of fishermen stumble drunk
and raw into the sea in a contest to grab the flag
waiting at the end of a slippery horizontal,
cracking ribs and worse, wearing dresses they picked out
sober at the vintage clothing store on Main,
the only sanctioned time to flaunt and saunter, to feel
satin hug their hips. On Portagee Hill,
widow’s walks blackly squat, wordlessly warning.
I always thought they looked gorgeous up there,
scrolling the dark iron of their domestic
crow’s nests. I wanted a cage to roam, looking
for love, a husband, even a dead one,
I could mourn. There’s romance in being lost,
tossed into a greeny hereafter, sinking
into oblivion. I used to think love should be
like that, all stormy and unfathomable.
I, too, bought my show time dress at Bananas,
for Senior Prom, 1989. I, too, fell, drunk,
until a part of me I couldn’t wait to lose was gone.
Rebecca Hart Olander’s poetry has appeared recently in Plath Poetry Project, Solstice, and SWIMM Every Day. She is a winner of the Women’s National Book Association poetry contest and a Pushcart Prize nominee. Rebecca teaches writing at Westfield State University and is editor/ director of Perugia Press. Find her at rebeccahartolander.com.
This poem is anchored in the physical and emotional terrain of Gloucester, Massachusetts, the small seaside city where I came of age. It draws on a tradition
This poem is anchored in the physical and emotional terrain of Gloucester, Massachusetts, the small seaside city where I came of age. It draws on a tradition