Bed sheets spread wide
over the living room floor;
the bilge of our boat -
bleached, with birds or flowers,
afloat on a soft shag sea.
Down pillows in brown cases,
our slat-wood bulwarks,
Hot chocolate our seaman’s brew
to help us navigate the night.
In a linen wheelhouse
the trappings of twilight set around us,
I would sleep under your weathered arm
until I grew sea legs of my own.
About the author:
Jason Brightwell lives in Baltimore, MD, where he finds himself routinely haunted by one thing or another. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals including: Extract(s) Literary, Phantom Kangaroo, Red Fez, East Coast Literary Review, Curio Poetry, Gravel Magazine, and The Battered Suitcase, among others.