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Click title to download microchap
Cover collage by JanK
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Privilege
A group of women practice Tai Chi
on the beachfront, their hands moving
in synchronicity. With each turn, palms
lift away from their faces as if to say,
not here.
We are safe.
I move from one crisis to the next,
knowing I am cushioned. I land,
always the bubble gently touching
the ground, bouncing, bouncing.
The splat sends tiny drops over
clover and spring flowers with no
injury to my heart or head.
Later, our dishes washed,
grandchildren read to, a glass of wine
under starry skies, far away
from a country being flattened.
Not here, I say.
We are lucky.
Taking Flight
An osprey arrives in spring,
building a nest atop waters.
Its white underbelly and ragged wings
perch, surveying shorelines.
I, too, left for waters,
finding refuge in craggy rocks
surrounding New England's salt ponds
where I washed up, landing with
some injuries sustained.
Now, I long for permanence
like the black-capped chickadee, taking
on cold, surviving in its boldness
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100 Years
I stumble on jagged stones, my bare feet
unaccustomed to the gravel-filled road.
Briny air fills my lungs. Beetle Cats wave
their sails and Whalers rock, rock to the
skee of gulls overhead. Beyond the dunes,
cymbal waves crash and rumble on the shoreline.
Here I learned to swim,
sunned on rocks,
missed a boyfriend,
chased children,
pushed a father in a wheelchair.
There’s nothing we can do, the doctors said.
He was fine with that, really. But I ached
for more walks down the familiar path.
Grief, like a high tide, eventually recedes,
but water holds it all.
Expectations in C
The guitar, a gift on my fourteenth birthday,
sits neglected in my living room.
Moving from house to house, it has followed me,
each time claiming a precious spot.
The quiet screams from its strings.
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Why I Stopped Eating Crabs
Evening fog settles thick on pond soup.
Don’t say a word, my uncle whispers,
resting his rake against weathered wood. We peer
over the dinghy. They shimmy with meaty pincers,
creep sideways along creviced sand.
Slices of moon reflect on shimmering water,
and the creatures--their eyes glisten like butter splattering
in a skillet, a desperate dance. They scrape the bucket,
jabbing pointed claws, luckless, fold into each other,
scoring the metal. I bite my lip, quiet to the end.
"Why I Stopped Eating Crabs"
published by Cactus Heart Press in 2013.
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Susan Carter Morgan © 2022
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Susan Carter Morgan is a former teacher and studio owner with writing published in magazines such as Literary Mama, The Dead Mule School, and Curio.