An Anchor’s Rope – by Jeff Burt

It was not beam and wrack,
ship’s keel upside down
as it was hammered, joined,
But when he looked down,
her belly grew bones inside,
a home no less constructed.
Each day he’d imagine
her finishing a section, then paint,
then spirits to weather,
a galley but no kitchen,
masts but no sails,
the umbilical cord an anchor’s rope,
and finally a stern, a helm,
where now she reached to touch
the child almost breaking water.

Jeff BurtJeff Burt lives in California with his wife amid redwoods, ocean, and swallows that raise their young in unused drainage pipes due to drought. He has contributed to Williwaw Journal, Sunlight Press, Cold Mountain Review, Heartwood, and Sheila-Na-Gig.