Rust

Adam J. Gellings
| poetry

 

I was never very good at fishing.
I'm thinking about a single speck
of blood: long & drawn out.

Someday is a funny little thought that keeps
my horizon blue enough.
Who's to say where the line is?

Probably tangled in a cluster of branches.
I'm now reminded of the time my dad
bought a small boat from a church rummage sale—

everything as-is.
I was waiting for the bus when I saw
the sockets of those oarlocks go whimpering past.

The remnants of rust in the Lord scriptured
beneath the pout of aluminum sheer.
I believe we all have a little rust inside

& if you're one to believe we are made
in his likeness, then give me some truth:
you can't always tell if something is dead

just by looking at it, can you? You find it in things,
he used to say to me & now
I say his name from behind a thin mesh.

I've drowned the hull.
I've thrown the last bottle overboard.
An ocean may lurk. Hold & wait your breath.

Adam J. Gellings is the author of the poetry collection Little Palace, and his poems have appeared in New South, The Louisville Review, Willow Springs, and elsewhere. He lives in Columbus, OH.

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