What it was to be
on our backs in the grass
of Goodrich, North Dakota
west of a burnt-down house,
north of a burning high school
sleepily gazing up through cornflower blue
that was less the sky than aquarium:
leaves of aspen flashing like water,
branches hands of coral,
our flesh becoming sea-cow
and everything eating May sun.
I can’t really say, devolving as I am
into dugong, Sirenia lowing, whiskered
and dawdling on the blanket of the floor.
Water tower, silo, and a patch of urban grass
to nibble with a nap,
whales floating by above the plains
migrating between the Aberdeens
collecting into pods
like water drops on the window
staggering backwards with wind.
How far are we from home? Meaning what?
The great aspect of inverting my familiar
blue world into hers, a new glade
of blue flooding the green slopes
at two thousand evolutions
per minute, roughly.
Travis Hancock lives in Honolulu and works as a freelance writer. Trained as a classicist and Americanist, he primarily writes about history for Hawaiʻi-based magazines. His poetry tends to cover themes of love, myths, island life, and deep time.