by Amy MacLennan

On California’s left edge,
mid-state with cold waters,
populations smear the coast, cluster
on fringed bits of peninsula, outcrop —
descended from fishnet menders,
barmaids, tenders of a lighthouse lens.
New blood, some, but this kind of wet
isn’t meant for all, skies cast over
most of the year, and the smother of fog,
slight sawdust tang, can lose
its romance fast. For those
who love ice plant on sand, trees
horizontal in the onslaught of wind,
and a constant bite of salt,
it is a place, the place, to settle
and cling to the end of land,
in coves, topping cliffs, on the verge
and knowing it.

Amy MacLennan has been published or has work forthcoming in Hayden’s Ferry Review, River Styx, Pearl, Linebreak, Cimarron Review, Folio, and Rattle. Her poems are forthcoming in the anthologies Not a Muse from Haven Books and Eating Her Wedding Dress: A Collection of Clothing Poems from Ragged Sky Press.

Back to Issue Two: Winter 2009