How to Make an Escape
Paul Ilechko
We slammed together planks of wood
and metal spikes and rope called
the thing we made a boat slid it from
the sloping shore out into silent water
colorless morning water where
we interpenetrated reeds
empty packages floating
aimless under a rising sun the season
was changing again and light came
ever sooner we thought about our friends
who tried and failed to make this journey
friends we might never see again
the distant lights which glittered through
the mist are gradually winking out
as day extends its reach smearing
the glassy surface where it lingers
beneath the foliage in awkward corners
there’s electricity shimmering in the air
frying dragonflies and sparking randomly
like acid-tainted lightning bugs
we reach the opposite bank scraping
our path onto the shore an empty
swing turns slowly in the slightest breeze
no sign of life no babies sobbing pitifully
no worn-out wheelchairs all abandoned
no blind man staggering across the beach
his cane which almost snaps the tip jamming
into a fragment of sea glass and sliding away
it’s autumn already the reporters are gone
there’s war and peace to write about
the most recent fashions are fading to be
replaced as soon as Labor Day is done.
and metal spikes and rope called
the thing we made a boat slid it from
the sloping shore out into silent water
colorless morning water where
we interpenetrated reeds
empty packages floating
aimless under a rising sun the season
was changing again and light came
ever sooner we thought about our friends
who tried and failed to make this journey
friends we might never see again
the distant lights which glittered through
the mist are gradually winking out
as day extends its reach smearing
the glassy surface where it lingers
beneath the foliage in awkward corners
there’s electricity shimmering in the air
frying dragonflies and sparking randomly
like acid-tainted lightning bugs
we reach the opposite bank scraping
our path onto the shore an empty
swing turns slowly in the slightest breeze
no sign of life no babies sobbing pitifully
no worn-out wheelchairs all abandoned
no blind man staggering across the beach
his cane which almost snaps the tip jamming
into a fragment of sea glass and sliding away
it’s autumn already the reporters are gone
there’s war and peace to write about
the most recent fashions are fading to be
replaced as soon as Labor Day is done.
Paul Ilechko is a British-American poet and occasional songwriter who lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron Barks, Atlanta Review, Permafrost, and Pirene’s Fountain. His book Fragmentation and Volta was published in 2025 by Gnashing Teeth Publishing. His next book, Post Moby, will be out in 2026.