Kevin McLellan
IRON
The 4:00. Provincetown-to-Boston
carries less than 20 of us. No one
else here, stern & starboard: the
2nd floor. I think, Dignity directly
corresponds to a face—my face &
persona just dismissed by a fellow
fellow—& I fixate on the rolling
whitecaps. The fog lifting & the
lighthouse no longer in view. No
boats either. No birds. No other
passengers. I hear myself sternly
say to myself, “It’s deep” & now
a sinking feeling, the vertical pull
from stomach to toes—all soles.
