Stencils

1. Thoughts are summer swims until
you cry. In this pandemic
the tears are loud, grating, relentless,
inescapable. Then the pool calms
—chases its own waters in a whirl
and the edges become defined,
where all I can see is your lovely face.

2. Setting up north
where the greens stay green year long
and the deep blues in the sky are
distinguished. But I’m talking too large.
You need something from me you can use.
The only time I don’t feel guilty is when
you’re sleeping.

3. Rowing to beat the wash
but the oars can’t keep up.
It isn’t the arms or the legs;
it’s the variation in pressure,
glide of inconsistent waves,
a distraction from the rhythm created.

4. Somewhere someone
is trying to call a bird on a fence.
Nothing about this cries
for attention, except maybe the lack
of offensive color in the foliage.

5. Over the edge, leaves are patterned
the way they do when fall only just begins—
not heavy and overridden like November. Almost
stenciled into existence. I can’t burn these leaves
just yet.

Meaghan Elliott Dittrich holds an MFA in poetry from the University of Wyoming, is Director of the Connors Writing Center at the University of New Hampshire, and finishing her Ph.D. in Composition and Rhetoric. She lives in Dover, NH with husband Bradfield and daughter Elliott. They all like narwhals.