THE GLASS SHIP
I saw it far out on the horizon, a blinding light. As it came closer, I realized it was a magnificent sailing ship made completely of glass—glass sails, mast, hull—a dazzling spectacle in the sun. At times, the glass ship reflected rainbow lights like a crystal. I had heard stories of this legendary ship, though no one I knew had ever seen it, but here it was, bearing down on me in my small boat.
I looked up at the now looming ship and spotted a young man and woman on the deck, dressed completely in white. They were dancing, whirling slowly around, waltzing to be exact. I saw one face, then another, and was astonished to recognize my own parents. A longing arose in me, and I called out to them. They stopped and looked down at me curiously— my father with his slicked back hair, my mother with her black curly bob—
and did not seem to recognize their daughter. They resumed their positions, waltzing around the glass deck, a whirl of white, transfixed only by each other.
Gradually, I realized why they did not recognize me. I had not yet been born. Here were my parents deeply in love before they were married, before the four children began to come, before the toil of creating a home.
The glass ship sailed off with my dancing parents. Its wake caused a slight rocking of my small skin boat before I was left alone on the still sea.
Judy Wells
Armweary Traveler
the statue of liberty is much less impressive if people wear hats in front of you
those eyes that remember everything that happened
from the point of some choice that you made when you were twenty-two
you the platform the laundry blesses you as it hangs across the torch
and there you stand wearing california around your neck like an amulet
it’s strange having california hanging from my neck now
and it’s so huge you can’t move speaking those accents
emotional threads wide as a treadmill obscuring every other direction
then you’re big you’re supposed to choose
then disappear
the statue of liberty is much more impressed if you see it before it sees you
then she looks then you think you’re so small you’re invisible
so you carry coney island around in your pants pocket for your last day here
she’ll spend her life in thrall to that image
as you wave your torch in celebration and sink knee-deep in concrete
and the statue keeps staring staring
and blessed are the subways their clattered tempo slowing
to become your heartbeat
she’s been my friend most of the time since i’ve been back
whatever of that beauty goes into your walk is worthwhile
you’ve made your choice now you can’t get out of the way
so please come back with me to my hotel room night doesn’t set here
it made that decision when it first got out of college
the city’s lights redefine night any time of the day
and any day still sits still just west across the water
