Another Place

Willys DeVoll

He dangles his feet o’er the rotting porch

Staring, but seeing nothing

Through the narrow inlet of trees he spies the passing sailboats and the occasional seagull

And its sudden squawk almost startles him

It glides— it lives— without the knowledge of its own trifling

And it’s all clear to the bird.

He leans on the rusted lattice table

Reaching for a BB, but falling short

He flips the stock to his shoulder, pumps the fake wooden handle seven times, squints through the sight, squeezes the trigger

And the faint pop of the water balloon on the vined oak almost catches him off-guard

It persists—it grows—without hindrance, despite the nation of ivy that slowly proceeds up its weathered, judicious bark

And it’s in harmony with its enemy.

He stumbles down the mangled steps

Edging toward the boulders, the minute grains of sand, the puttering waves as they splosh down upon the all-too-ready shore

He digs his toes into a cavity in the rock, pulls himself up, stands upon the stone that can see forever

And its magnificence almost gets the best of him

It exists—it is—with the pain of knowledge and the lack of feeling that we only thought we had

And it loves with all of its nothingness.

He walks past the kit-built house with the leaky basement that reeks of mothballs, and the leaning shed that’s full of them

Aiming for the spot of burnt grass next to the chicken wire fence and the cracked asphalt road that beelines to the lighthouse

He lies his body down, stares up at the sky, and sees the stars you can only see in full sunshine, the ones that the scientists are too logical to ever find

He peers at the brown horses grazing on the other side of the fence

And he knows that he will never know

He rolls his head over, feels the prickly summer crabgrass, and is.