Return to Top of Page
Menu
  • Close
  • About Us
  • Contributors
  • Donate
  • Opportunities
  • Staff
  • Submissions
  • 20 Years
  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Search Website
Literary Mama
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
  • Departments
  • Blog
  • Newsletter

Poetry | October 2018

Schoodic Point, Maine

By Loralee Clark

I go
often in my dreams
to be cradled, rocked by the wind
whipping into the pines
filtering itself through the soft, green
needles. The sun here is welcoming
but never warm.

I carry a torn sleeping bag, make my
way to a granite ledge, a shelf and
backrest to lean into, to watch
crashing waves, the water
working to
erode.

I wrap myself
in the batting, cocoon into
the thick fears of carrying a child
and loving it whole. Insulated, I work
through the stone to the pebbles to the
sand and I howl. This heaviness, these
pockets of flesh—like the salty, lonely terns
consumed with need, bobbing
open-mouthed, their red tongues lapping
at the air, begging.

I cannot know whose mother
I will be, if
nurturing will come
easy; I lean
into the cold, sharp fog.

1 reply on “Schoodic Point, Maine”

GMDsays:
December 2, 2020 at 8:06 am

Very well done.

Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Share This Page

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Email
  • Copy Link

Loralee Clark

Learn More

Subscribe to Our Newsletter

Don't miss out on Literary Mama news and updates

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Instagram
  • RSS

© 2023 Literary Mama | Search Site | About Us | Staff | Submissions | Privacy Policy