No more messages in amber and celadon bottles,

or letters full of bees


smoked out of glued envelopes, stamped

with gargoyles from your corner of hell.


Oui, you are the navigator of this small boat.

Yes, the silver needle on the compass points true north.


Non, the sun is not temporary.

Oui, the moon is a mountainous eye with a vision.


Look, already you are asleep

inside the body of the mother


in your dreams.

Yes, you will be delivered.



Mary Morris has received the Rita Dove Award. Her poems appear in Poetry, Prairie Schooner, and the Columbia Review. If interested in seeking more work or a manuscript of poems, please contact