We Need the Boat of Love, Not the Boat of Tolerance
We meet our galleries
between barrels of oil, the photographs
survivors alone in the dark.
We hear the mermaids
drumming on the bridge, the steel water
from my childhood sink. We remember quilt
squares sewn unfinished, magic carpets
sailing on the East River strait. We flow
blood to our Moby Dick of hearts,
a four-chambered family
of questions in brine. We don't need
THE BOAT OF TOLERANCE
anchored not far from shore. We won't die
if this kiss remembers us
from a gutted past. The risk is
if it forgets our blood, our love
subsumed in the shallow
alter-world depths, art.
Holly Mitchell lives in New York. Her poems can be found in several journals including Ishaan Review, The Feminist Wire, and The Bakery.
