Tideland

That summer we bought a house, and by the winter there was nothing outside it. The walls, old like the hull of a ship, kept the seawater out, but everything we cooked still tasted like salt—at least until the tide withdrew in the spring. I thought of renovations, then: a tower, envisioning a lighthouse in the dark, standing against the waves. When we fixed the chimney it even looked that way, for a night. The mason's scaffolding lit up the shores like a signal fire, but I built us a new bedroom and office instead. When the world went away again, you worked from yours and I mine. And when the ship began to leak, by thimbles and teacups and buckets, we slept apart to try to stay dry. It didn't work, and, for a while, we sank. But the waters are starting to recede again, and every morning I crawl out from the same dream, where fish swim in through the windows, and you and I have finally learned how to breathe.

Richard Ford Burley (they/he) is a writer of speculative fiction and poetry as well as Deputy Managing Editor of the journal Ledger. Their second novel, Displacement, was published in hardcover in February 2020 by Prospective Press and is now available in paperback. They post updates (occasionally) at richardfordburley.com, and they tweet (unceasingly) at @arreffbee.