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Two poems
by Elizabeth Domike

Drifter

I awake naked in some sort of empty warehouse,
my body ruined. I can hear the roar of a river deep
underground. Shafts of sun light float lazily above.
I am not alone.

I remember a clothesline, a summer day, bees
heavy with pollen and flowers on my mother’s dress.
I don’t recognize you.
Your body is ruined too, a pile of coins at your feet.

We must be near the end of our journey.
I am not afraid, just weary
and ready to be rocked by the waters below.
I hear voices in the distance, calling, calling.

When the boatman comes I wonder
if he will carry me in his broad arms down
the cracked marble steps,
or if my body will fall away,
and I will drift lightly, lightly in the wind.

Meet Me in Zanzibar

In the lounge of an old hotel,
we’ll have a drink
before we begin our search
for the missing elephants.
The market will smell of cloves and coconut.
Such pale versions of ourselves we have become!
The monkeys screech out in the narrow street.
We’ll move slowly, lazy ceiling fans,
the wail of prayers at sundown.
An elaborate carved door casts shadows
on the man who promises to show us the illusive
leopard for a modest sum. We’ll hold hands
on the beach, laugh with delight like
we did in Antigua after the storm.
Cares drift out with the tide.
After these difficult years, we
will finally be here where our dreams matter
and all the intrigue is in black and white.



Elizabeth Domike lives in Portland Oregon. Her poems have appeared in Golden Lantern, King Log, Red River Review and the Oregonian. She admires the work of Anne Carson.