The Ferry

By NATHAN MCCLAIN

I still had a lover. Maybe let’s start there.
I hitched a ride to Boston, where I missed

the ferry by what seemed like minutes. But time
can work that way in the mind. I was in love

or wanted to be in love and there was distance
everywhere is maybe a better way to put it,

though what exactly was it, I hadn’t given it
a designation. I looked for the boat, it wasn’t there:

only the dock, a few seagulls, a blue distance.
If I was supposed to wave goodbye, I missed

my chance, though what did I care, so in love
with solitude, at least I was at the time.

It seemed easy, being lonely, watching time
lapse, that boat long dispatched, I’d missed it

yet there I was waving, like a fool in love
perhaps, at what? I couldn’t tell. I wasn’t there

when the ferry left, remember, I missed
it, or they went on without me. The distance

made it hard to see clearly where distance
ended, or if it did. Or I didn’t make it in time

to see, maybe time was against me. I missed
the ferry, I had no money. The ferryman said It 

was fine and smiled at me. Smiled. There
was the shore and me wanting to be in love

though I wasn’t. I carried what I could. Love?
I didn’t have room for it. In the distance,

I swore my solitude waved. I missed it where
I was headed, sure, but there was hardly time

for that. The boat was early. I boarded it
and stood on the stern. Part of me was missing,

but there had to be a cost. That part I missed—
my mind a rough sea I might have loved

watching lap were I not so inside it—
my mind the fish, too, the shore distant

as the voice I thought I heard in it, as time
itself. The ferry was late. I was there

hoping I missed it. I didn’t trust the distance,
lovely as it seemed. I didn’t trust time

nor where it carried me. I knew what was there.

 

Nathan McClain is the author of Scale; a recipient of fellowships from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, The Frost Place, and the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference; and a graduate of Warren Wilson’s MFA Program for Writers. His poetry and prose have recently appeared or are forthcoming in Poem-a-Day, The Baffler, upstreet, and West Branch Wired. He teaches at Hampshire College.

[Purchase Issue 18 here.]

The Ferry

Related Posts

Chinese Palace

Portfolio from China: Poetry Feature I

LI ZHUANG
In your fantasy, the gilded eaves of Tang poked at the sun. / In their shadow, a phoenix rose. / Amid the smoke of burned pepper and orchids, / the emperor’s favorite consort twirled her long sleeves. / Once, in Luo Yang, the moon and the sun shone together.

Xu sits with Grandma He, the last natural heir of Nüshu, and her two friends next to her home in Jiangyong. Still from Xu’s documentary film, “Outside Women’s Café (2023)”. Image courtesy of the artist.

Against This Earth, We Knock

JINJIN XU
The script takes the form of a willow-like text, distinctive from traditional Chinese text in its thin shape and elegance. Whenever Grandma He’s grandmother taught her to write the script, she would cry, as if the physical act of writing the script is an act of confession.

a photo of raindrops on blue window glass

Portfolio from China: Poetry Feature II

YUN QIN WANG 
June rain draws a cross on the glass.  / Alcohol evaporates.  / If I come back to you,  / I can write. My time in China  / is an unending funeral.  / Nobody cried. The notebook is wet.