Waking in her crib, the boat
they pushed her off in long ago,
although she stood to shake the rail
and wail at them,
      she’s all at sea.
Nothing familiar in the dark
until she rubs it from her eyes:
gray bear, gray ceiling where the moons
and stars turn, turn away.
      Why
wouldn’t she cry? For out there, perched
at table’s edge, unreachable,
white to the brim, supremely real,
the bottle with the golden nipple
glows like a lighthouse.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 9 Number 9
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