Poetry by Emily Hockaday
Moonless Night
On the roof of the beach house,
snips of conversation drift, orphaned,
out the open kitchen window, but I have eyes
only for the dark sand to the left
and the glassy water of the bay
to the right. Two foxes out
under cover of night dig furtively
in the packed wet sand by the serf.
I lay on my back and hold
my damaged foot up
to the studded sky. I am feeling
sorry for myself; I am thinking about
the high deductible I hit on our health
insurance last year and the money
I will pay this year for Cortisone
Injections. The fox I imagine myself as
would either move through the pain
or become less efficient, more
scruffy, more gaunt, and then,
like all of us, die somewhere here
in the dunes—hidden and decomposing
in the beach grass and scrub brush.
What is the benefit of having it all
figured out? Here on the roof I root
into the shingles; I push
myself against the slanted structure
and imagine the sky spinning;
but it is spinning, even if I am
imagining it; it is always spinning
or at least we are wobbling and
spinning within it.
On the roof of the beach house,
snips of conversation drift, orphaned,
out the open kitchen window, but I have eyes
only for the dark sand to the left
and the glassy water of the bay
to the right. Two foxes out
under cover of night dig furtively
in the packed wet sand by the serf.
I lay on my back and hold
my damaged foot up
to the studded sky. I am feeling
sorry for myself; I am thinking about
the high deductible I hit on our health
insurance last year and the money
I will pay this year for Cortisone
Injections. The fox I imagine myself as
would either move through the pain
or become less efficient, more
scruffy, more gaunt, and then,
like all of us, die somewhere here
in the dunes—hidden and decomposing
in the beach grass and scrub brush.
What is the benefit of having it all
figured out? Here on the roof I root
into the shingles; I push
myself against the slanted structure
and imagine the sky spinning;
but it is spinning, even if I am
imagining it; it is always spinning
or at least we are wobbling and
spinning within it.
Photograph by Ché Ryback
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I am author of three chapbooks: Ophelia: A Botanist's Guide (Zoo Cake Press), What We Love & Will Not Give Up (Dancing Girl Press), and Starting a Life (Finishing Line Press). My work has appeared in journals including the North American Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Amazon's Day One, Newtown Literary and most recently Cosmonaut's Avenue. I can be found on the web at www.emilyhockaday.com and @E_Hockaday.
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