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 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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