The complete poemearlier and revised versions, in full
“Carol”
I was only twelve.
You were thirty-four,
living in an apartment by Wollaston Beach.
On your porch, we loved to watch
waves crash on the soft, pebbled shore.
Once, you showed me a painting—
shapes of greens and blues.
A black stroke, apostrophe-shaped, stood out.
“That’s me lost in a crowd.” You laughed.
I thought the painting was the ocean.
You, the apostrophe,
tumbling headfirst toward the shore.
I don’t like the contractions that apostrophes create,
though I just used one.
Ellipses bother me too.
When I’m somber,
these marks
recall the void of loved ones lost—
my father, my brother,
many others.
And the fear
of losing you.
Now you’re eighty-one,
and I’m fifty-nine.
I wish I could enter the past,
change the apostrophe
to an exclamation.
No—my heart.
A steady pulse in the light.
Beating like the waves,
green and blue,
assuring you with their rhythm—
you were not lost.
Just part of a current
carrying you
safely home.
I was twelve.
You were thirty-four,
living in an apartment by Wollaston Beach.
On your porch, we loved to watch
waves crash on the soft, pebbled shore.
Once, you showed me a painting—
a gyre of blue-green shapes.
A black stroke, apostrophe-shaped, stood out.
“That’s me lost in a crowd.” You laughed.
I thought the painting was the ocean.
You, the apostrophe,
tumbling headfirst toward the shore.
I saw no crowd. Only waves—
and you, curved like a question mark,
diving toward the shore.
I don’t like contractions—
something is removed. Ellipses bother too.
When I’m somber,
these simple marks
usher the memories
of Dad and brother Mark,
and my fear of losing you returns.
Now you’re eighty-one,
and I’m fifty-nine.
I wish I could enter the past,
change the apostrophe
to an exclamation.
No—my heart.
A steady pulse in the light.
Beating like the waves,
green and blue,
assuring you with their rhythm—
You were not lost,
just part of the current
carrying you safely home.
Earlier text from the earlier reading copy of Crossings on this site. Revised text from Crossings.
Once, you showed me a painting—
shapes of greens and blues.
A black stroke, apostrophe-shaped, stood out.
“That’s me lost in a crowd.” You laughed.
I thought the painting was the ocean.
You, the apostrophe,
tumbling headfirst toward the shore.
Once, you showed me a painting—
a gyre of blue-green shapes.
A black stroke, apostrophe-shaped, stood out.
“That’s me lost in a crowd.” You laughed.
I thought the painting was the ocean.
You, the apostrophe,
tumbling headfirst toward the shore.
I saw no crowd. Only waves—
and you, curved like a question mark,
diving toward the shore.
Here revision adds rather than cuts. “Shapes of greens and blues” describes; “a gyre of blue-green shapes” suggests movement, and perhaps prepares the sea the boy believes he is seeing. Then the poem looks a second time at the same black stroke. The apostrophe becomes a question mark, and “tumbling” becomes “diving,” a fall turned into a choice.
The punctuation conceit that follows also tightens. “I don’t like the contractions that apostrophes create, / though I just used one” becomes “I don’t like contractions— / something is removed.” The shorter clause says what the marks mean to the speaker more simply.
A suggestion. You might describe one image in your draft a second time from memory, without looking at the first, and compare the two.