Rub the callus
where the pencil rests
instead of the bare base
of your ring finger.
When you aren’t feeling
so much like yourself,
what is your relationship
to enough? The sea
that gives you sand, the foam
that gives you the spray
of algae floating toward river,
salt into a far off fresh?
Will you let the conches rest
with their oracles gestating
or beg they scream
bloody murder? Evenings
the pencil marks two
dimensionality like a dog
who sits and laps
at the edge of a mirage
called thirst.
At night the foam builds
without shine. If you don’t
bed a scientist, will you
never hear that
the existence of the surface is
more important than what
the surface contains
or your silence?
If dreams weren’t fluid,
they would answer
to day. Instead
they drown it.
Poetry and prose by Amy A. Whitcomb have recently appeared in Witness, Poet Lore, The Baltimore Review, Terrain.org, and other journals. She holds a Master of Science degree and a Master of Fine Arts degree, both from the University of Idaho. Her writing has been honored with a Pushcart Prize nomination and residencies with the Jentel Foundation, Playa, and Great Smoky Mountains National Park. You can meet Amy at www.amyawhitcomb.com/artist.
