- Little Sails
We unlock the top and bottom locks of the apartment door and sink into chairs. Now— now we can be nothing more than a web between the nouns we care for.
But one evening we discovered a red-kerchiefed basket on the step heaped high with storms like black potatoes. The note beneath the basket read, “Thinking of you —Fall,” in hieroglyphics.
I find myself speaking for you. Whereas together do we talk at all? Each morning I go watch the sun struggle up from under the river.
Runners dodge around me, so lithe that the air barely stirs.
Webs of red light spreading over the river: How can I grasp the force of that current until the wind begins to push against it and a fierce chop starts between the piles of the bridge, an agon—
You are paler than you know when you first wake up, but stately and firm-thighed, bending over the basin with its horsehair glaze, and there’s a voice on the radio, a singer of our parents’ generation. [End Page 96]
How slowly you pivot, turning on me that eye that before coffee is a whale’s eye, closing, worldless. [End Page 97]
noah warren was born in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. His work has appeared in Poetry and The Yale Review. He lives in New Orleans.