You are here

Sounding the hull

Lisa Matthews

I wanted a red hand, a pasting of sunset

over my becoming. There was a rain storm

and I felt the water heave beneath the boat.


If I had asked anything of you, I am sure

it would have been given. But this one thing,

it seems, is beyond you now, as it was back then.


I listened as the carpenter sounded the hull,

mindful of tiny imperfections in the grain:

a swollen tongue; a bitter sand-stained groove.


Homeward eyes said nothing new, as if all we

were was each other. I waited in a chair

in the corner. Come, tell me a tall tale.


From Chroma No 2 (Spring 2005)