By Charles M. Sumid
Copyright 2025 Written 1973

The ocean holds us in its frozen palm like something precious
or something it might soon decide to swallow.
We count the heads in darkness—twenty-eight where sixty fit—
and feel the empty spaces breathe between us.
Each absence has a name.

Listen—
do you hear?
Voices.
They’re calling out.
From where?
The water or the stars?

A child asks when her father will catch up in the next boat.
Her mother’s silence answers like a prayer.
The stars have never looked so sharp—they cut right through the lies
we tell ourselves about who might be coming.
The ship tilts toward the void.

Meter: Mixed – 15/11/15/11/7 stanzas with 2/3/2/4/2/5 bridge