Hayden Saunier

Morning Drift
by Hayden Saunier

I wake in a small house with one blue wall
by a cold sea, also blue,

most days transparent

where water works itself thin,

the door of the house open

to the hammering of men

bending wood into boats

which is the sound of anger

framed as buoyancy, shaped like cupped hands

that hold but not much

or for long.

Here the beach is called shingle.
As if flat stones make a roof

I could balance on,

their names kept to themselves

like the many shy birds

I don’t see watching me

lie down in the tilt of earth.

After looking at blue, my closed eyes see red.

It’s magic

how each morning you
come alive and stay

alive until the moment

I remember you’re dead.


Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 4

Hayden SaunierHayden Saunier is the author of three poetry collections, Tips for Domestic Travel, Say Luck, which won the 2013 Gell Poetry Prize, and Field Trip to the Underworld, winner of the Keystone Chapbook Award. Her work has been awarded the Pablo Neruda Award, the Rattle Poetry Prize and the Robert Fraser Award. She lives on a farm in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. (www.haydensaunier.com)

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