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On the Harbor

January 12, 2014

The poets father. A poem written by Alison and published by The Midwest Quarterly in 2009.

On the Harbor

The gulls call harsher and harsher
then fall silent. 
The plovers and sanderlings call 
teacup, bluette,
please, please, please 

Far out on the harbor
an old fishing boat rattles awake. 
I hear in it my father’s voice
turning in me such tenderness
I break
like a thin purple oyster shell, pieces so small
teacup, bluette,
please, please

Pleasing blue, old boats
weathering and tipping in the low tide,
reminding me that we, too, run aground
from every water
from everyone we father.

He would want to know what gull, exactly, 
keeping a list.
Firsts are very important.

I am the last of his children.
I will spend the least of his life with him.
I will say, ringbilled, Dad, immature, 
I will say

Summer is ending again.
And that is what my father says to me.

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