Poetry by Zac Schnick
Ships don’t set sail
in the basement
of a flooded party.
The bass provides
sufficient whispers
for the sails and
spilled water streams
from the shower.
Slurred stories float
down the corridor
until someone cuts
the lights, drowning
the harmony. We choose
the right words because
the wrong ones are
a hallway anchor:
drop it
too soon and we crash
into the closet.
Out of the wreckage forms
a maritime bond, fraternal,
eternal. The tide
washes away the wounds
and we glisten: moonlit
heroes. Thrust to the coast
by the surge,
our stories sprout
into boyish feral boasts.
Someone sinking brags
about whose mast is bigger,
someone calls out the bluff.
When the well
of fiction dries up,
we traverse the night
shore to catch a glimpse
of blooming
sun dresses.
Zac Schnick wants a dog, like really wants a dog. But he lives in a small apartment. It just… it just wouldn’t work out.
