Zeno’s Shipwreck
It sank in July,
adrift along the chalk-spun corridor,
sidewalk scalped by surveyor’s white:
the long-loved triple decker—
last dust
of the family lot.
It stood bruised,
its torso propping up
demolition permits midway
behind blue-green COMING SOON signs.
Missing from the basement:
Our grandfather’s samurai sword,
the heirloom harpoon,
hauled across the Pacific
into the post-war boom.
Thanksgiving Morning. My wool scarf
knotted tight through intrepid air.
It will still be Massachusetts Avenue.
The street signs, unfazed.
The house’s pre-demolition face—
eyes of an old friend,
hushed, half-frozen.
Vines recede like fractions of memory
down rusty gutters
atop a temple kept in mind.
When summer whips back round
new ships we didn’t foresee
will roll on volatile oceans,
the miles halving their way
under star-stitched moonlight,
with our chests—anchor & compass—
pointing, not steering.
Jason Youngclaus
Jason Youngclaus is the author of the poetry collection Little Planet Raisins (Spartan Press, 2020). His work has appeared in Cathexis Northwest Press, Transcendent Zero Press, and From Whispers to Roars, among others, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. You can find him on Instagram @jyc_music_lyrics.
