Joa Bren Smith
Suki by the Sea
Another morning on the island. Inside the house, I hit the coals with a long stick.
Embers fly, surprised by their aliveness. Out the window, a low fog on the hills.
Otherwise, darkness. Out the warm house, down a hill, and back up a hill. Good morning,
says the Monster of the Dark Morning. Good morning, I say back as it has been a year
since Lia’s death and I suspect everything could be true. The frogs sing unerringly.
The birds fly evenly. I ache for murmuration, something changed. Maggie runs off a crow.
Silently, I say goodbye to the crow. I say goodbye. Some things you do not get to say
goodbye to. Not aloud. Maggie barks, piercing the darkness. The fog, which is barely
noticeable apart from the sky, contracts like a sea creature. I walk to the barn and think
of death. I go everywhere and think of death. I think of pulling the shell off a hermit
crab, its violence. A piece of land is an economy of tragedy. In the paddock we have
made cribs for the ewes. There will be death and life. I suspect that I will see the blood.
I will see it. Sometimes you do not get to see the blood of those you love. I grieve no
proof of death. In the barn, in Suki’s crib, on a piece of land amidst the sea, four new
eyes look up at me. Then Suki, all human in her long lashes and gesture. The blood is
gone, the afterbirth has been chewed. She has been a good mother in the early hours of
the dark morning. There is proof without proof. I look away.
Joa Bren Smith is a poet and essayist. Originally from a small coastal town in Michigan, they are largely influenced by lake region, imagination, and the mythic. They most recently lived on a sheep farm in the archipelago off of Washington State. Their work has appeared in Hooligan Magazine, Poets.org, Allegheny Review, and others. Joa is an MFA candidate in the University of Montana’s Creative Writing program. They run the program’s reading series, Second Wind, are a poetry editor for Cutbank, teach creative writing classes, and work at a local bookstore.