In Ballard

Aquarium abuts
Hipsterium. My heart
beats fast—blame
Synthroid. That’s uppers
without sin. Maybe
I’m breathless for
obelisks of lost feeling
At 6s and 7s over
my ruinous profession:
reporting used to
pay for words.

I’m near maritime condo
klatches, watering holes
that spit out old sea
dogs and walking past aging
yoginis, where breathing’s
a career choice.
“Self-employed”
a synonym for still alive.
This Census is eternal.

Marriage a collective
scar tissue webbing over
extreme emotion.

“Cities like this marry
often,” I say. “They
also ban drones.”

You check your retweet.
“Pro-bird or
against voyeur?”
We name stuff, hope
that’s proof. That’s how
reporting works.
At the viewing tanks:
a ginger-tattoo-
anchored corner man,
a hot algae chick.
Sockeye-voiced,
you praise swimming
upstream, exult
in the family. I remind
that chinook splash
home and then
go DOA.
Breathe fast,
algae robots,
sprinters with gills.
As water levels
are different
for each body
of water, the lock
evens them out.
Panic is always
in a body as
well as a head.
Beside ourselves
means we are upset
but also outside our “I.”

Tears a symptom
yet we are also sad.
Artisanal dives blink pink
neon, announce that
though we are far
from home we are still
somewhere.


From Thoughts and Prayers (OR Books, 2019). Reprinted with the permisison of the author. All rights reserved.