Spring 1989 • Vol. XI No. 2 Poetry |

White Skiff

I see my skiff has slipped its mooring, pulled downriver by the outgoing tide; a rope rag dangles from the buoy. Perhaps she nudges the mudbank downstream where green marshes hiss and change color. Perhaps she revolves in a quiet inlet where kingfishers hesitate, then stab. Ribs tender as antelope, stern flat as an open palm— my white skiff is an open heart gone wandering off on her own.

Already have an account? Login

Join KR for even more to read.

Register for a free account to read five free pieces a month from our current issue and digital archive.
Register for Free and Read This Piece



Or become a subscriber today and get complete, immediate access to our digital archives at every subscription level.

Read More

The Wake

By Susan Sindall

I see my skiff has slipped its mooring, pulled downriver by the outgoing tide; a rope rag dangles from the buoy. Perhaps she nudges the mudbank downstream where green marshes […]

Subscribe

Your free registration with Kenyon review incudes access to exclusive content, early access to program registration, and more.

Donate

With your support, we’ll continue 
to cultivate talent and publish extraordinary literature from diverse voices around the world.