The Isle of the Dead
        Painting by Arnold Bocklin

In 1880 I stood under
a pale moon, a chandelier crashing
down on my head. I had fallen

in love with President Rutherford B. Hayes.
His wife didn't like that at all.
Neither did Rutherford. They chained me
up in prayers. I often dreamed of
dying in dusky shades of light
that I hoped would last forever.
I woke up. Same fork, spoon, and bowl.

In one dream I traveled on a rowboat
nearing an island, a woods in the center.
I stood, unafraid of tipping over.
Years later when I did die,
I saw that island, a hand reaching out—

I grabbed hold and it led me
into unyielding trees.

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Copyright © 2022 Kenneth Pobo All rights reserved
from Asheville Poetry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission