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If you think for a moment the tempest might be kind

you forget — lines cast while becalmed

in this blow are taut on the gunwales

holding you, me, and the whole flotilla

of skiffs and scows with manic tension

on watery mountains gathered from continents

— and when ruptured with the thunder of dreams

we bob off from center where there’s no sense

     in reaching out

as you disappear into the swells, rope trailing…

 

 

 

Sarah Merrow was born a New Englander and now lives in Baltimore, Maryland. When not writing or playing music, she rebuilds concert flutes. With this vocation, it’s inevitable; she hears music in poetry, and poetry in the music of all genres. She studied English, German, Japanese, and Spanish and as a result, has trouble limiting her Scrabble choices to English. Her poems have appeared in The Broad River Review, Wilderness House Literary Review, and the Irish publication An Caomnóir.

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