The night of my conception (A concocted Musgravian writing workshop poem)


Sweet sea water dreams,

waves licking,


the cracked-red paint.

That early summer afternoon,


at Heriot Bay:

She had one frock,

a rose-hued dress

she saved for store visits

and funerals.

Not church.

Never church.

She was done with that.


He was tired of seafood;

craved steak.

She calmed him;

“fish is fine,

but we’ll see.”

He hunted up

his old prairie dog pistol;

He was not above

shooting some lazy old cow

if it wandered into his sights.

“Damn things rusted, Marion,” he moaned.

It had fallen

into a foot of bilge

over by Ripple Rock

weeks earlier.

That storm had almost

swamped them;

rusted gun,

soggy odds and ends and all;

“We’ve got so little,” he belly-ached.

“A small price,”

she said.

“We’re alive.”

She returned at dusk.

They ate a bucket

of free oysters,

cuddled in the cramped cot;

Dreamed me up;

crazy seagulls