Here are two poems.

Mother Trapped in a Boat
Or A Rowing Mother.

Imagine Mother in a rowboat.
The oars are heavy and damp with salt.
She moves them through the water
with her thin arms, her elbows bending
like the rusty fulcrum of a barn door.
He bangs are pulled back with the few parceled
strands of grey so she can watch the shadows
of large sea mammals and speckled scales
swim at arm’s length below her.

Mother doesn’t complain that
she’s trapped in the middle of a body of water
rowing a small brown boat in a sundress.
She complains about the smell of the water,
about a buoy that can’t break away
from the chain that tethers it to the ocean floor.
She’s thirsty and licks the sweat away from her lips.

Mother is out to sea in hopes to find
a message in a bottle. Or a map to a place
that isn’t on a map. As the moon casts
a blue shadow on the boat, she places
her head on folded hands
and watches a piece of driftwood
filled with knots and holes
sink into a school of silver fish
that shine like the ring around her finger.