Kate Lebo: Ferry
When the captain’s worn welcome echoes
off the observation deck, I hear
gulls stealing. Worn is what I don’t know
about metal, the invisible strings
of projected voice. Ignore his instructions,
then follow them. Follow
is my mother’s hand teaching me how
to be good at being good.
But I’ve lied. The sea isn’t glass.
I want to give wind a mouth so it can howl.
To the west, shoreline confirms a place left.
No whales as our boat wakes the jellyfish
soup of Puget Sound, but ducks do
what their name means. This ferry
is a fat white bullet and they wear
dinner jackets for the camera. Bullet
is how a ride to Whidbey unmoors Mt. Rainier.
It floats on a band of atmosphere, like Vancouver
wrote when the mountain mucked up
his midnight math, gave land
where he wanted sea. The same deep
that deafens me to safety
while I lean on the rail and wait.
KATE LEBO is the author of A Commonplace Book of Pie (Chin Music Press) and Pie School, a cookbook forthcoming from Sasquatch Books in the Fall of 2014. Her poems have appeared in Best New Poets, Gastronomica, and Poetry Northwest, and she’s the recipient of a Nelson Bentley Fellowship, a Joan Grayston Poetry Prize, a grant from 4Culture. She teaches creative writing at Richard Hugo House and pie making at Pie School, her cliché-busting pastry academy. For poems, pies, and other tasty treats, visit www.katelebo.com.
More from this
issue >