I find you face down,
nestled somewhere between dream and sleep,
as if one could exist without the other,
as if a petty argument the night before
had never happened.

The silence of your back and shoulders
invites me back to bed,
where I anchor myself,
where my mind skips rocks as my father fishes.

The tension is as subtle as the water’s surface,
capable of holding up boats and a chubby boy
escaping the heat of summer.
Do you dream of such things, I wonder
as I approach my second wake?

Had we been childhood friends, I could imagine
you a spot on the water’s edge,
alongside my father.
Your arms stretched out,
the visible part of your skin warms
from midday sun as your body
slowly takes on water.

This poem appeared in New Plains Review, Spring 2020.

About the author

Mickie Kennedy

Mickie Kennedy is an American poet who resides in Baltimore County, Maryland with his family and two feuding cats. He enjoys British science fiction and the idea of long hikes in nature. His work has appeared in American Letters & Commentary, Artword Magazine, Conduit, Portland Review, Rockhurst Review, and Wisconsin Review. He earned an MFA from George Mason University.

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