Apr/May 2006 Poetry

Our Vacation

by Patricia Parkinson

Our Vacation

He is not from where I am.
He's from two ferries
and a road
that bends an ocean.

It's not an island, he told me.

My flat land
is behind a rock
that I climbed in a Cortina.
I had a VCR.

Marry me?
He didn't ask.

I saw the ocean from a magazine.
It was glossy.
He was matte with borders.
I took the pictures.


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