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Ferry Crossings
by Gladys Henderson
Those watching begin to turn away,
until no one remains who has seen us off.
Faces of men and women grow smaller,
the waving hand of a child disappears.
The vessel hauls port and we journey
through the narrows, cars rattling below,
a few sounding their alarms, like tethered
elephants screeching their discontent.
Sonar echoes its intervals across the sea floor,
listens for openings between the vertebrae
of sand and stone. Deep fog swallows us,
the captain concedes to read the faces of dials.
We are travelers balanced high above the tide,
nothing to bind us, harbors have disappeared from
sight. We rock with the motion of the ferry,
the calendars of outcomes postponed.
Some fall asleep; others stand at the rail watching
the closeness of gauze wrapped islands slip by.
The foghorn blows three times, then is silent
until it sounds again.
What brings us to our crossing is not spoken.
We float in the place between, lulled for a moment
in the address suspended, allowing time to hold us,
as we travel through the schedules of our leaving.