Poem by Jean Janicke
Stretch out on this watery hammock. Stretch out your toes to the shore, sure the sun will toast you, toe to head, head to toe. Grasp a wooden post by slender string, hold on by a pinky, tethered to the talk from deck chairs. Wave bumps the board to thump the dock, pops atop submerged stones. Splashed shore rocks plop like the first bubble to a boil. Is this the sound of water when it resists? Somewhere nearby a lawnmower crunkles as it hits sticks, its drone drowned out when someone stumbles down the stone steps, shouts “I just saw a snake” All eyes on the dock look up, but seeing no slither, gazes return to the pages of history, mystery.
Jean Janicke writes, dances, and works in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Paddler Press, Yellow Arrow Journal, and Instant Noodles.
