Cat Dixon
I’ve always pictured you there—
evergreen, canoe, lantern, braids
in your hair—reading books unafraid
of being alone, and you eventually
grow old in a cabin. The loon
with its melodic lullaby settles
and calms you to bed each night,
and the fireflies, numerous as the stars,
as hairs on your head, as the angels
in heaven lighting the path of longing
and memory. You want to see how
high we can go? Let’s ride horseback
on a forgotten trail in search of lighthouses.
Isn’t it too late to say no? You said
to never meddle in the affairs of land
or sea, and then snuck up the rocky coast—
even let the horse go—for moths gave
you flight to the top of the tower.
What rewards have you reaped now
that you’ve hunkered down in
that abandoned lighthouse? I’ve always
pictured you there—alone weaving
baskets you plan to fill with plums.
Like the rest of the world, I’m doomed
to envy the lighthouse with its private
keeper’s quarters and beacon flashing the waves.
***
Cat Dixon is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She is the author of Eva and Too Heavy to Carry (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2016, 2014) and the chapbook, Table for Two (Poet’s Haven, 2019). Recent work published in Sledgehammer Lit and Whale Road Review. She is a poetry editor at The Good Life Review.