four canoes

placed there, along the dense shelf of granite
abutting cobalt waters that spit lichen up and out,
scattered to grow crimson
in summer light.

felled like dominoes, each one
lipped upon the next.
ancient vessels forged from modern ore.
a timeline from native to miner; innocence to exploitation.

their stories unknown.
a revelation as opaque as
these Maine waters.
hinting at a history that remains hidden.

perhaps banked here where the waves stir shoal
by teenagers baked honey brown with sun.
alive in that wonderful time of
raspberry scars and grass stains.

their muscles taut with youth.
floating through a fleeting summer shine
that brings the first feel of oar in water.
the tugging tides of a tangible freedom.

and these canoes remain, as empty shells
upon the beach after the molting cycle.
those days now gone, as they’ve shed adolescence
for a paycheck. a mortgage. responsibility.

only aluminum hulls beginning to rust
left as proof to that former life.
to the fact that they were once adrift
before time forced them to anchor.


By: Josh Palmer, inspired by the art of Jen Salamone