The drive that bounded the ocean was all but sewn
shut with sour-grass. Sun-bleached, the tired dock shrunk
from the swells and rusty nails that somehow held.
She prized the tattered old thing she’d bound tightly
around them both, it kept her snug and sound—though
held in slumber, he lashed about as a torn sail
while the wind ran wild and the compass spun.
She hummed a lullaby of her mother’s making
it seemed right to honor and calm the dead—
as phantoms swam beneath the silvery plane.
The hours clanked their flattened chime and bone-pipes
whispered bleary-eyed: “Do you miss me, Mother?”
Then waiting on the sun’s hiss, the Dusk washed in sweet scents—
in the echoes: goodbye and goodbye and goodbye.
•••James Flick studied Fine Arts at the Center for Creative Studies in Detroit, but writing soon replaced painting as his main creative passion. His work is inspired by his adopted Florida coastlines, family adventures, and his modern art background. His work has appeared in The Melic Review.