Sunday, July 15, 2007

marge joins billie for breakfast at the huntress house

for those who are so curious...this about sums it up:

smalley bar
marge piercy

Anchored a ways off Buoy Rocks the sailboat
bobs jaunty, light, little. We slide
over the side after scraping bottom.
The water up to our waists looks brown
ahead. We wade onto Smalley Bar.
I leave the men clamming and walk
the bar alone toward shore.

By the time I walk back straight out
from the coast of the wild island the tide
is rushing in. My shoes already float.
I walk the bar, invisible now,
water to my thighs. The day's
turned smoky. A storm is blowing
thick from the east. I stand
a quarter mile out in the bay with
the tide rising and only this
strange buried bridge of sandbar under me,
calling across the breaking grey waves,
unsure whether I can still wade
or must swim against the tide to the boat
dragging its anchor loose.

Unknown territory. Strange bottom.
I live on bridges that may or may
not be there under the breaking
water deepening. I never know
what I'll step on. I never know
whether I'll make it before dark,
before the storm catches me,
before the tide sweeps me out.
The neat white houses across the bay
are fading as the air thickens.
People in couples, in boxes, in clear
expectations of class and role
and income, I deserve or want no pity
shivering here as the water rushes past.
I find more than clams out on
the bar.

It's not my sailboat
ever, but it's my choice.
...

couldn't have said it better myself.

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