Letter From the North Haven Ferry

It’s raining or we’re
crying—no one on the ferry’s met
but there’s something we love about passing
boats and passing each other so
I’ll go on believing in our essential difference
from the waves: our lack
of constancy. I cannot find you
through this overwhelming
paleness, white
space, this one of a hundred pink
lobster buoys. I’m not
surprised, exactly—
when deprived of ourselves
we notice ourselves, coat
collars turned up against
the cold. What are we
when put out here
on open sea, what are we
but eyes barely able
to see past the railing, what with the rain
falling that
dark, and that often.

Isabel Prioleau lives in Charleston, South Carolina. She interns for The Adroit Journal, and you can find her most recent work in The Post and Courier. Isabel was an attendee of the 2018 Juniper Institute for Young Writers and the 2019 Iowa Young Writers’ Studio, and is a member of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship Program’s 2020 cohort.

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