The horizon has gone missing, and the sun,
now shoreless, glides as if upon water,
falling headlong into every myth, every syllabic crackle.
Back porch conversations wave their hands
at its distance, unable to measure the space
between a coffee cup and the morning hour.
In jest, I turn to you, spreading my index finger and thumb,
making a half circle— the sun holds there, fixed to a point.
We laugh, squeezing it into place, believing its body
to be no wider than that of a human’s—
as if two palms held close enough to the earth
could generate fire.
Laughing still, we roam between hill tops,
scraping our limbs upon the hour,
whispering horizon, meaning return.
It’s hiding, we say, beneath a cycle of leaves,
waiting for us, waiting to be clasped tightly
to our breast and held.
We walk further still,
waving index finger and thumb—
the tips of each burnt to a pale orange.
Chanda Jamieson is a fishmonger in her hometown of Fort Myers, Florida. As the daughter of a commercial fisherman, born and raised in a small fishing town, she writes with place in mind, tracing the echo and hum of home. She received her MFA in poetry from Emerson College and is the winner of the Sanibel Island Writer’s Conference Poetry Contest.