Dear Turquoise,

I know nothing of navigation. Nothing
of booms and sheets and links. In the night,
I lean against the rail, try to remember
that port has the same number of letters
as left, and that its light is red like wine
or functioning marrow. The rest is pitched
in the wake—starboard, right, green.
Nothing makes sense from this other side.
I have the wrong shoes for a polished
deck. I have not bothered to check
the stores—I suspect they're empty now.
If I had learned the sky, I might find
my way to shore. I know a bit of weight
if not weighing anchor. I am well versed,
if nothing else, in sinking. Some things,
you said—remember?—need no teaching.

Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her recent work is appearing or forthcoming in Adanna, The Bellingham Review, Yemassee, and Weave, among others, and her most recent chapbook Dear Turquoise is now available from Dancing Girl Press. She serves as Managing Editor for Cider Press Review. 

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