House in the San Juan Islands

Ian Walters

I. The Evening

From the ferry I smelled a wet town
Lulled to sleep under tilted blue slate tops
Like water sitting on black rocks, slickened—
The hissing road—
On salty fog sat trees, and a crackling sea grass
Split my toes in the yard of the splintery house.

II. The Dawn

Draw me gasping from the squeaky faucet,
A tattered pull cord for the morning,
For a gasping wet prayer,
A cold rasp on my neck, a wet prayer filters
Onto the tiles—my feet! My hands! My lips, my apple!
Look, my collar!
Where is it?
This was the magic of the place.

III. The Afternoon

The cormorants angled steep, the whitefish.
I strained into the ocean with them,
Unashamed, swelling, un-guilty of the briny luminance
I tangled about me like fishing wire.
The chilled sun shaded the oysters,
We pried them with our wind-chapped fingers,
Wet still with purple berry juice
From the thorns, colors and pricks
And seeds on my tongue, my teeth.
I owned it all, like a human.

IV. The Night

The roasted mollusks dripped over,
I sucked them out and grinned.
Nostrils and crackle-fire mix delicious.