Fog of War
By Laura Buxbaum
I’ve been in a fog before – sailing ghostly quiet,
listening for the buoy’s clang, blowing
a feeble horn to warn the ferry or the lobsterman
our small vessel is near, please don’t hurt us.
Brain fog, too – what’s the word I’m looking for? Who
are you, do I know you, did our children
go to school together? Did we make music once?
Did we go to bed together years ago?
Icy sea smoke. Dense cloud my headlights
barely pierce. Fog on a mountaintop, blue
sky on the other side. Gray-white sea through
which the blind and miraculous airplane passes.
We motored up Eggemoggin Reach through
swirling ribbons, wisps like birds or spirits.
We said there must be a thousand words
for fog, for its varied shapes and colors.
Sometimes the mists fooled us, making
distance seem closer or sounds farther
away. Never were we so confused
that we might mistake a drowning sailor
for our enemy. Never did we
sink a boat
then blow up
all of the survivors.
Laura Buxbaum (she/her) is a re-emerging poet in her sixties, living in Maine. Her pursuits include raising goats, making cheese, making music, and running on local trails. Her poems can be seen in Thimble Lit, Rat’s Ass Review, Brawl, Verse-Virtual, and Soul Poetry, Prose & Arts Magazine. Her poetry explores themes of family, loss, love, and nature. Lately, she’s working to find her sharper edges and explore ways to confront the chaos and darkness we all face.
Photo credit: Fakhri Baghirov via a Creative Commons license.
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