The Year by the Lagoon

Whitney Seiler 

She broke dishes one by one
until we washed mosaics in the sink,
warm water glittering with slivers,

and barely spoke when we sat smoking
by the mantle with her, color setting in our hair,
algae creeping up the dock, everything a slow stain.

We never swam, though she had a boat then (pulled me
once behind her, no one cheering) and the car before
they loosed it from the tree. When we woke

to find my father in the living room we
hadn't noticed she was missing, only
how dried wine had made
cathedral of a glass.


Whitney Seiler is a Brooklyn based poet and photographer. More of her work can be seen at

Issue 13

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