Dare, Virginia

by David Ingle

Out past the humid continental lip,
on a speck of pine and salt she’s
released: a pale-faced birth
on turtle island, a moon of ill omen
on breaking waters. Carolina.

On the home island an eponymous king
breakfasts and disdains his tea. His name
shines westward, rays lapping an ocean’s
worth of green swells.

On Roanoke a mother groans and clutches
At phantoms in the unfamiliar air, spies
for a moment the procession of all that led her
here, the rude parade of what will follow, then

parts ways with the crowning princess of the new
world. The first girl’s cry does not reach
the yet-dark shore.

David Ingle is the Assistant Editor of The Georgia Review. He’s published poems in Crazyhorse, Quarterly West, and elsewhere. He lives in Athens, Georgia with his wife, Mary Anne O’Neal, and their three young children.