8.
the end of the world. At the edge
we stood apart, then closer, looking out.
7.
the words I learned as a child. Little lamb,
who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
6.
Three of them pushed us off as we called O-
brigados into the mist. I felt like one
thrown back.
5.
Portugal, you said, and it curled
and shimmered in the dark.
4.
and how we argued all night around
Sevilla. Every turn and we were back
at that same fountain. How I tore the map
3.
His hands swept toward each other until
the right one swerved the moment before
2.
He spoke in Spanish underwater. Port-
ugues? You shook your head. Español?
and he shook his.
1.
Screaming woke me. Mine. Fishermen
in yellow boots running to the car. I looked
at you and rolled the window down, and you
spoke Spanish to the man whose head reached through.
—
Deirdre Lockwood is a poet and fiction writer based in Seattle. Her poems have appeared in DIAGRAM, Poetry Northwest, Salamander, The Threepenny Review, The Yale Review and elsewhere. She has received support from the Fulbright program, Hugo House, the Elizabeth George Foundation, Artist Trust, Marble House Project, Willapa Bay AiR and Sitka Center for Art and Ecology, and is working on a novel.
Photography by: Christian Blais
