by Michael Hettich
is standing in a rowboat, way out. The still air
is scribbled with gnats, which swarm inside your shirt
as he stands and calls out to you. But he’s too far out to hear
as now a dog appears, the black dog you both loved
as children, the one that disappeared;
it shakes itself hard, and starts barking at your brother
who keeps waving as he drifts out of sight and a soft rain
starts falling, finally, to clear the gnats away.
So you take off your clothes and slip in, swim out
through the rain that’s falling harder now. The dog barks from shore.
Flowers are blooming in the distant mountains
where the snowmelt trickles down. And you will never reach him.
Michael Hettich has published over a dozen books of poetry, most recently The Halo of Bees, which was published by Press 53 in May, 2023. His work has appeared widely in journals and he has won a number of awards for his work. A professor of English and creative writing at Miami Dade College for many years, he now lives with his family in the mountains of western North Carolina.
Hawaii Pacific Review 