Habitation of Wonder. Abigail Carroll

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      moss-dotted patios. M is for Medjugorje,

      Massapequa, moon jellies washed up

      like useless musings on the shore,

      a menagerie of bathers: misguided,

      metallic in their shine. Gulls beak marram grass,

      mica flakes,

      mussel shells, empty packs

      of Marlboros. M is for the millions—

      the reverent, the mystified—

      Moxie drinkers, marina workers,

      mahjongg-players, Matlock watchers—

      the Madjeskas, yellow lanterns

      garlanding their porch, Manilow

      on the radio, macramé scratching the backs

      of our legs. Cardinals mount

      the arch of the holy white

      plaster, hop between birdbath and mulberry,

      consider the minor miracle

      of perpetual posture. Our Lady of

      Bay Avenue, of marigolds, milk cans, mayweed,

      Madonna of the mullet-anglers,

      mooring-fixers, lemon meringue makers:

      you preside over mainsail and mizzen mast,

      the maintenance of motors,

      the scrubbing of mildewed hulls, the spreading

      of garden mulch. M is for the fog horn’s distant,

      plaintive moan, for plastic mass cards

      on the fridge, Montauk daisies in the breeze,

      mackerel frying on the stove.

      Heron

      Across the water from the shipyard—lights glittering over the bodies of nuclear submarines—and not far from the fishing pier where the Lost Cause,the Elizabeth-Kate,and the Special K are moored, you stand,thin as a prospect, so still I take you first for a sculptor’s joke, your stoic beak forged toward the distant hum and bang of industry.We study the gray feathered stick of you,at first unfindable with binoculars some strangers lend us,then unsteady in the lens.My fingers brush the cold,paint-chipped rail;I wrap and unwrap my ankle around the pole,waiting for you to move,waiting for the couple with the binoculars to stop watching,wondering if you are for real, and what is real about the evening—the glistening shipyard sparks exploding in the distance,the reeking nets, lobster traps stacked high on the docks,a rusted red truck perched at the end of the pier,and here, where the water laps a tiny pebble-gray shore,your perfect plumage,the bold show of it,your awkward audience,unsure how long to stand,whether or not to wait for a sign to break the calm and head back toward the car, away from the gleaming pink face of the sky.

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