The water, jagged glass underneath us
like the obsidian of an arrowhead,
made our ride a rollercoaster.
The boat’s noise, like a heatsink working
to cool an angry processor, eliminated
speech. Torn away from my cares,
a summer songbird, I closed my eyes.
Gripping the seat’s edges, sticky and
artificial, wondering if I could fall.
I could fly, jostled like the cargo
of a careening plane, tasting sweet
taffy and other verdant luxuries,
uncoupled from neuroses responsibilities
as we slowed back into the embrace
of mangrove-lined shores, dolphins played
in our artificial waves.
Maria S. Picone has an MFA from Goddard College. She’s interested in adoptee issues, exile, belonging, and identity. Her poetry and translations appear in Homestead Review, the Able Muse, and Route 7 Review. Her Twitter is @mspicone, and her website is mariaspicone.com.