Anna V.Q. Ross
In the Year of the Snake
A gull grips the roof ridge across
from my kitchen window. Herein Dorchester-by-the-sea, where
the Red Line and Expressway clutchthe coast, the animals don’t
blink, and there are so manybooks I’ve yet to read, so
many things unswept; the frontgarden maculate with leaves
and rubbish, the gate fixed crooked.On the ferry out to Nantucket
at New Years, Brian told us to watchfor deer, that when the mainland
became too crowded they would swimfor island pasture, a myth
which became certain each timethey arrived. Some five o’clock
evenings now, when the bay air liftsenough to find my winter gable,
I look for them, don’t you?Antler nubs, raised just above
the currents, hooves churning awayfrom the shatter-frozen shore,
navigating.