The Seawall
by Claudia Althoen
Foot half off the stair, you’re lost in thought, eyes focused, mind elsewhere. I wonder what makes you stop every few stairs as you descend. Clear glass panes, but you’re the cold foam on a latte. What do you brew when you’re alone in a room? You tell me things as they are and I tell you things that always have been. You’ve been in these rooms with me. We share the same panes and we don’t lie to each other. It’s a Vancouver winter and this ferry never docks.
Stay or leave, the coffee still drips on a napkin under the part that leaks. There’s an art to waiting and we’re not Picasso. Misplaced shadows, dread that seeps into the sunflowers, and monochrome shades in the fruit bowl. Reality is our handshake and we’re well acquainted with the falsities and egos that plague our seawall.
Claudia Althoen finds inspiration in her travels, the places she’s called home, and the intricate nuances of human emotion. Her poetry captures fleeting moments and the pauses between them, blending vivid imagery with quiet introspection. Her work has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review and Propagate: Fruits from the Garden.