Dinghy floating on top of its ocean
liner, the way we must look like adult and pup
sea lions, beached and snoozing, or else
an asp on a heat rock, or a couple of grubs,
you on me like a stone on a stone,
how it’s almost like it was
only now you can fall from me
and we don’t share any organs
though we must long to, or should I say
I long to, and from this delicate position
I have learned what my body is for,
from an eleven-day-old! You, my Albert,
on me now like a daybreak inamorato,
so unfamiliar I can only just remember
your formal name.
An excerpt from Anna McDonald’s poem “Cairn at 4 A.M.” The full poem appears in the May 20th New Yorker.
The sweetest reminder of certain cairns of our own, at 7:00 am and 9:00 am and 3:00 pm and 7:00 pm, and in every other bleary-eyed moment in between. Nearly five full years ago—it’s still a wonder, is all.