The Pocket

Winter, 2017–2018 / No. 40

An untouchable and drastic movement

soothed us into two hundred square feet.

It’s the city, we say. We hold on to more

or less the same things, side by each.

Don’t ask after us. We’ve been combing

an edge into this sand for months.

We vacation to the north. An empty path

is our path, for the minor seconds

during which we sense its beauty, pass over it

to stare at fog that chimneys across the mountains,

maybe until the slaps of our entitled feet

grow inaudible from a significant distance.

Autumn is already rubbing its scent on corners.

It calls for reducing cold, tangible room; we’ll stitch

up a cerulean pool into a pocket, make it usable.

We could live here, you say. Imagine

we lived here, I say. The water gains speed,

bounces light back, dives into and out of the question.

Allison LaSorda has recently published work in the Fiddlehead and Shenandoah, and on Haz­litt. Her debut collection, Stray, was published in 2017. Last updated winter, 2017–2018.