The Alewife (Jerry)
It was the summer the alewife ran aground earlyand the summer before they closedthe beaches at dusk. It was the summer after thechild nearly drowned in the quiet waters
beyond the first sandbar, and it was the summer Ilost my favorite necklace to the hungrysandin the dark, whipping someone’s abandonedcharcoal grill into the sniveling waves that
breached clamorously against the shore, steppingover themselves nearly, their vulgarcomplaints keeping coming, warning us to keepour feet out of their spray. And it was somany
summers ago when he was still alive, Comstock,or Jerry, but really Comstock because thatwasthe street he lived on the end of, or maybe it wasin the middle, and we called each other by
either a last name or street name or the name ofthe bicycles we…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, November/December 2024