Sunday May 26

Borowicz Poetry Karina Borowicz is the author of two poetry collections, Proof (Codhill Press, 2014) and The Bees Are Waiting (Marick Press, 2012), which won the Eric Hoffer Award for Poetry was named a Must-Read by the Massachusetts Center for the Book. Her poems have appeared widely in literary journals and have been featured on Garrison Keillor’s A Writer’s Almanac and in Ted Kooser’s American Life in Poetry series.


From the Deck

Perhaps it means

the constant
gesturing of the sea:

look over here, here
I am

a small swell
I like to think only I

see suddenly flatten

because what was
almost there

must never break
the surface.


The two we throw
are the only shadows.
Not a tree
or blade of grass
darkens the landscape.
White hills of sand.
White sun.
The few words
sifted by our mouths
have the same
burning smell
as the pulverized rock
With effort
we pull every step up
out of the hungry sand.
You say, “Give me
your hand.” To keep moving,
we must remember why
we keep moving.
         But I want
the coolness
of forgetting.
This why,
why, is blistering
my skin.


I speak
then pause. The words
don’t flutter up
and away but drift
down. Lift, and then land.
Meaning earth, meaning
touch, meaning shore.

But sureness has nothing
to do with it. One can’t
sound out certainties – a solid bell
won’t ring. Better yet
there’s a crack in it,
a danger in the ringing.