Robin Beth Schaer


Armored with a netting of tires, the barge crawls,
sets a path of moorings along the harbor.
Summer anchors sink in the silt, their white floats
bowing to current,

waiting. I am tethered here, while you chart home,
north through narrow clemency, spared between sharp
Carolina coast and Atlantic beaten
barrier islands.



“Migration”¬†first appeared in Denver Quarterly (Volume 39, #3).