← v19n1, Spring 2020
Poetry · Volume 19, Number 1

The Boat — The Village

A Portuguese fishing boat, blue, its wake rolling up the Atlantic a bit.

A blue point far out, and yet I’m there—the six onboard don’t notice we are seven.

I saw a boat like this being built, laying like a huge lute without strings

in the barren ravine: the village where they wash and wash in rage, patience, melancholy.

Dark with people on the beach. A meeting was breaking up, the loudspeakers were carried off.

Soldiers led the orator’s Mercedes through the crowd, words beating against the metal sides.