Sibyl Ruth
The Same Boat
My head at your ribs.
They are overlapping strips of wood.
I hold hard on your blades.
Together we push out.
But I can’t see the way forward
as you dip and stroke.
You could be my mother
on the River Avon.
The water glitters.
Light on her holiday dress, her throat.
Showing me how to feather
and square the oar.
The current pressing us back
to where we came from.
Page(s) 22
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