Volume 10 • Number 2 • Fall-Winter 2018-2019

Timothy Pilgrim

Low-tide triage

Winter again, beach fire lit, ocean mist,
moonlight raking stranded starfish in,
nature’s hint — save something,  

salvage spring. Kneel on cold sand,
iced damp, assess the earth, the sick.
Breathe deep, trim ragged edges  

of igneous heart, slice off conscience,
at least the darkened bits. Somehow,
avoid amputation of the ending.

No more argument

He surges at me, spews
an armada of reasons

to reject climate change,
forget carbon, love cars,
trucks, planes. Lays praise

on factories, damns Earth First,
the jerks, mere pessimists,

eager to hate. A loud knock,
the door, then two. I open it
a crack, have time to say,

the Pacific's here to see you.

The deadhover

“There is a little dead child in the pond --
one that has dreamed itself to death.”

Hans Christian Andersen, "The Daisy"

I begin to small against my lost life,
believe it time to fish at sundown,

mingle with black moths
whirled white in graying light.

Trust rod, line, fly to provide
cutthroat stopped mid-gasp

in tall grass. Slide a bright blade
along red bellies as growing dusk

covers bad memories stuck
in pooled blood. Wash the dead

in deep river, fling entrails, hearts
into night. Try to forget why

the hopeless call this place
a burial ground for shadows.

Timothy Pilgrim is a U.S. Pacific Northwest poet with several hundred acceptances from journals like Seattle Review, Windsor Review, Switched-on Gutenberg, Hobart, Windfall, and Third Wednesday. He is author of Mapping Water (2016).