I imagined the festival – scenic whirl on the great wheel,
holding hands and swiveling to watch the white corona
reflect in Baltic waters beneath the Hörnbrücke. I believed
outside our window keelboats would compass us
to city center, where we would dance through streets;
vendors tempting us with foaming mugs or day-sweets
that we’d ignore, innocently. We’d be ringed with string lights
and desire. Scents of plum and elderberry. But
we find ourselves sighing at sailboats in empty canals,
trying to figure out how to navigate the unknown
ferries. Always dwindling money, you suggest we ride
bikes because, honey, it might quickly cobblestone
these bumpy moments into memories, however jostling
and sweaty. We stand with strangers on the bus, then
walk past carnival booths, our AirPods dulling the shouts
of kayakers, yodelers, and youth choirs. This is a good day,
I think, stirring a frothy heart in my coffee. Bronzed statues
of resistance and faith guardian the church gate or serve
as bollards by the lake. We need something to tie ourselves
to, so we don’t drift away. We’re seeing what we’ve never seen,
but we don’t really cover new ground. We finally sit down
to dessert, a smooth custard married with raspberries, only
exotic because its foreign name, only memorable
because it’s the bowl we’re sharing together.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry – all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to cut paths through the thorns for their four sons to hike through. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine.