In Nantucket, she grew to love the buoyant seersucker she walked on,

that carried her beyond the linens

and grace. They were robed with sun,

eating figs from every tree,

using the remains to sew themselves a

divinity richer than Croesus.

 

Her time at New Haven was ravenous.

By her second year,

she had traded in The Romances

in favor of practicality.

Insatiable, she took His counsel,

but she began to taste wasp in every fig He brought.

 

She enjoyed the novel freedom

of her pre-war Village apartment,

And shut the door at Martha’s beckoning wail.

She tore up The Times, letting the remaining pieces disintegrate under the murky water that hit her feet,

but still the day’s headlines crystallized as wallpaper,

trapped along the circumference of her brain.

 

By dusk she found herself beneath the

swollen faces of our founders,

searching for warmth as Camelot went down in flames.

She roamed across the planes,

but the great lakes wouldn't part for a shepherd.

So she drove along

 

And let the tides of the Columbia take her name,

and watched as salmon traveled

where their intuition would take them.

She envied them as they travelled devoutly,

beyond dams and predators, unknowingly.

The silent springs began to lament,

so she stepped into the source

where her feet immediately sunk.

 

And there He was, laden with pins,

mouth closed shut.

Crown on the seabed, He begged on his knees,

which she mistook.

He said she’d gone too long without Hyannis,

so she cried and questioned.

And with no response,

she ran out and against the current

in hopes for California.