O' Dark Hundred
This is the hour that writers eulogize,
midnights when my husband guards his post
against monotony. Before sunrise,
this is the hour that writers eulogize.
In port, a sentry walks the deck, replies
all conditions normal, surveys the coast.
This is the hour that writers eulogize,
midnights when my husband guards his post.
I can imagine that he faces west,
the sky like a purple sail above the sea.
Somewhere a buoy creeks. Waves sink or crest,
and I imagine him. He faces west
to stand and watch and wait alone, the rest
of the crew asleep in the machinery.
I can imagine him. He’s facing west,
the sky a purple sail above the sea.
My words are just reflections from the shore,
and the page, imperfect mirror of his ship
where white lights blink above each metal door.
My words are just reflections. On the shore
there’s radio silence—no talk of war,
only the sound of nothing, only the blip
of words reflecting distantly from shore,
and the page, imperfect mirror of his ship.
Previously published by Evansville Review. Excerpted from Stateside, Northwestern University Press, 2010
Jehanne Dubrow, Featured Poet
