In Dreams I Marry Moses Woodfin
by Maryclaire Wellinger
My blue house in buried hull-in-earth
into Fiske Hill like a wooden boat,
Built by the compass to follow
the arc of the sun,
it nests on a cradle of cut granite stone.
Like a small sea-bird
it rides the ocean of seasons
surfing off the wave-crest of Spring
when tulips burst
through soil and beachstones in the garden
to blossom yellow-and-red like starfish
then it slides down the blind trough of winter.
When I am depressed, even the known horizon line
disappears. It catches and lifts me
in a net of ceiling-beams.
Her windows clear and curious
take me outside
and through her open door
I go into the hill.
In dreams I marry Moses Woodfin
a fisherman who lived here.
His daily catch of cod smells worse
than the garlic and tobacco
on his breath.
He sings the songs of whales in French,
shows me how to make
vinegar from wine
with his hands circling in spirals,
until we lie down together, laughing.
When it rains I live above a river.
Water streams from the hill
down the surface of bare rock ledge
underneath my house where Moses floats
on a pallet of musky air.
I slip down between the floorboards
to embrace him,
muscle upon sigh, laughter upon bone.