Kennebunk Port, Maine by Alaina McGinnis

The smell of
decaying fish and low tide
never bothered me
in late August
the way it did
mid July.

The attic bookstore
was worth it.
I never understood
how the eight foot tall
candle by the door,
refused to engulf the building.

I guess it had respect
for literature.

Sometimes I think of
the rotting wedding cake
Miss Havisham sat next to.

This must be what it looked like.

A mass of ivory melting
only to harden again
stale.

The barely insolated,
wooden, walls looked
as if they were torn
out of a Bible.
The scripture holding
everything together.

My grandma said, when
the sea air grays
the wooden planks, they
just flip them over.

No one could
tell me what happened
when both sides went
gray.

I’m going gray.
White actually,
same as the pages
in every journal
I buy when I come here.

Twelve and counting.