by E.K. Mortenson
Here, at the edge of the world, all that breaks the seamless gray is a thin line: the palest of yellows. It is all that separates the oncoming front from the outgoing tide. There is a lifeguard chair, its thin metal legs rusting into the sand, its wooden bench, warped and splintered. It stands mute watch over the leaden sea, the steel sky. This time of year a man might climb into that seat, clench each cold armrest and watch the armies of surf and sky amassed before him. He might, then, place all of his hopes in that band of light floating upon the horizon, and wonder if it will be enough.
E.K. Mortenson is an MFA candidate at Western Connecticut State University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Third Wednesday, RATTLE, Defenestration, Chantarelle’s Notebook, The Centrifugal Eye, Connecticut Review, Red Clay Review, Broken Bridge Review, and Connecticut River Review (for which he is now Assistant editor). He was the 2008 recipient of the Leslie Leeds Poetry Prize. He lives in Stamford, Connecticut with his wife, son, and two cats.