by Dee Cohen

The ocean is strange from this direction,
sharp stoned and bottle green.
Waves wear down the rusty cliffs
and spill out over the coarse sand.
You are on the other side,
your mouth a thin horizon of doubt.

At night the hills lean
into the cold sky,
the pier shifts and moans
as I make my way
to its farthest point.
Above, the moon rising
and stars emerging, dozens at a time.
Across the water,
your tide pulling me home.

Copyright © 2021 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.