by Christie Towers
Out on the docks we walk
as though we are trespassing
and we are, we do, as we slip
wet sneakers onto the deck
of a boat not ours, the moon
hanging wide and white
and welcoming over bridges
and buildings of the city
we choose. I am telling
you about something I saw
on the news: a panoramic
view of Mars, how it looked
peaceful and new, not yet
destroyed, a vastness
of reddish mountains
and wind and nothing
else moving. I have
never wanted to live
anywhere but here, but I
can’t stop thinking about
the future, this untenable
and shifting harbor, how
it will soon swallow
everything we can see.
I tell you that when I am
praying those who trespass
against us I am never not
thinking of boundary –
but the boat shifts on the water
below us. Lord, forgive us
our trespasses. I don’t know
how else we will ever get free.
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Christie Towers earned a BFA in poetry from Emerson College and is pursuing an MFA in poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. Her work can be found in Narrative Magazine, the Ohio Edit, SummerStock, and Reality Hands. She lives in the Boston area.