Image by Mirja Paljakka/Red Edge Images, used by permission S. E. Venart CHANCE HARBOUR Some things cannot be faced head on. Inside the bay, men in boots come with shovels, open our washed ocean floor. The thoughts I can never lose or use spout from the sanded throats of clams beneath what the tide exposes. Two years after your death, you’re back visiting my sister’s yard, admiring the lilacs. Some things cannot be faced head on. When the men climb in a dinghy, they accept a black mask and plunge for whores’ eggs: prickled delicacies to be eaten, peeled, by eastern men. These thoughts I will never lose lie beneath our bay’s smooth skin, it’s coming in, low tide holds its copper strength for only sixty seconds. I have no time to fix you in place before you’re gone. Some things cannot be faced head on. This visit, you stood by tiny lilac flowered flutes, unruffled bay behind you. All pettiness aside, I can’t be the daughter pulling something