THE PROFESSOR FROM GILLIGAN'S ISLAND WATCHES ANOTHER SUNRISE
I've often wondered what it feels like to drown—
Mr. and Mrs. Howell found me standing there,
So now, I come to the beach before anyone
Today, Cassiopeia is still in the sky, hanging
to salt-stained arthritis, and start to read
wide open while splitting bamboo for Ginger's
I measure time in scars, now—my hands a calendar,
myself long life, intelligence, wealth, love, home.
Elizabeth Wager (she/her/hers) lives and works in Rochester NY, where she write poems on her work breaks, watches British mysteries on Sunday afternoons, and takes pride in her eclectic assortment of houseplants. Her work has appeared in Yellow Chair Review, Able Muse, Cathexis Northwest Press, and The Allegheny Review. She is a graduate of the MFA program at Southern Connecticut State University.
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