I took us to places
where it was
difficult to hear each other
over the wind,
over the waves.
I took us to places where it was
difficult to see each other,
hands wiping
the hair and the mist
from our faces.

I read a review of one place
so close to the shore that the
“waves were too loud
for conversation.”

Take us
to that place.
Where we can’t speak
without being
by the weather.
Where we can’t speak
of anything more
than what we gather at our feet –
agates and abandoned shells
of moon snails,
small stones with faces.
Line them up along a crooked
piece of driftwood.

Then walk out along the shore,
to scan the water for creatures,
pointing to the faintest clearing
in the clouds,
over the the Olympics.

~ Megan M. Codera


Fort Ebey

I know this tunnel
with cracked concrete walls
where the ground
grows through.
Mosses and the thinnest weeds.
Puddles where the wall meets the floor.
A quiet
that shuts out the world,
what stirs ahead
what shifts behind.
Boys once waited
against these walls,
boys once hid
against these walls,
torn between the war above
and the pull, the pierce
of home.
Then after the war,
couples snuck in
for a kiss,
creatures darted in
from the rain,
brothers lured
little sisters
as far as the dark
and flicked off
the flashlight.
Now it is too dark,
and damp
to find solace.
It’s somehow
and less mysterious.
But that quiet
cuts out
the world.

~Megan M. Codera