Apartment Poetry Quarterly

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16f PATTIE MCCARTHY

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[UNTITLED YULE TIDE]

on the east coast in winter     above or below the tide-line

one walks in water or in mud     there is no dry land i


clam holes in mud

& sand— why not


look to that like the sky—

winter fishery


tradition says clams are common property

& the flats unleasable—


birds try & fail to gyre— at least

for a while— the middle of the water is a window

 

 

 

 

the sky spangled with crows

a night body of water


serrated wrack     saw wrack     toothed wrack

dulse spiraled tidy into


a whole universe ii— bladderwrack

is a cunt in the granite—


textured     uncertain driftlines

things aren’t always so


conscientious as to draw

their soft edges for us

 

 

 

 

we move singularly like

a liquid — soft shallows


what if instead of horizon

lines we read low


drain tides     boats soft aground     the middle

littoral sugar kelp woven — I will never have


enough I say to your

sleeping inscrutable shape


snow on snow     snow

on snow     fallow waves

 

 

 

 

find your V     goose

whirl the fuck up


warm winter windows

ladybugs on them


oyster comma

oyster ear


half a conch crown

clam fan light


my oldest hears sounds that I

cannot — including the sky

 

 

 

 

the sky keeps bright

eyes on us — we


look up into the cold

the tide makes


a friction like

a song in glass


that is     the tide sings

while it spins in glass iii


so deep midwinter the light turns iron

there is no end to your tongue

 

 

 

 

at this time of a winter’s day one can see

the light turn & begin to flake & burn iv


& while it’s a turn I always notice

something far away changes key


there is no perfect

line except the wrackline


which is infallible

it’s too cold to do


anything complicated

come to bed     come to bed     come to bed

 

 

 

 

in marginalia season—

hawkless salt-hag


the tide adds or subtracts

a causeway— a lightening


line between the deeper

blues & though I


look with adoration at these

lines for hours


nothing comes

back to me

 

 

 

 

seastruck grid of skies

a whole year— more


skies than days v

in five days I saw


at least sixty skies —

gray wool—broken orange


glass—burning—oystershell—

gray cool—boyfull—clearing blue—


mirror calm—gentle cloud commas—

whirled up storm waves—

 

 

 

 

a calendar of salt & tides

& birds scything the full sky


it took me so long to write this

it’s over — but that’s


the way with everything we

say in unison with briny


tongues— tide me

over — if you put


something in a circle—         no one

will want to cross it

 

 

 

 

I don’t even know what’s good

anymore— I only know


what makes a pause— even

the smallest stop in the relentless


present tense —

wery so water to wore


weary as water on the shore vi —

the ocean told us


how we felt & who

were we to argue

 

 

 

 

—December 2020 - March 2021

 

 

 


 

i J.A. Baker, The Peregrine, “December 3rd”

ii after the work with seaweed by Jeannet Leendertse

iii after Luke Jerram’s acoustic installation / sculpture Tide

iv J.A. Baker, The Peregrine, “December 21st”

v after Mary Burger’s Skies of 2020

vi wery so water to wore is from the Harley Lyric beginning “Betwene Mersh and Averil”; the translation here is Eleanor Parker’s