John Muellner
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EVERYTHING SOFT AND WELCOMING

​In the last hour of evening light the sky has flipped over
to publish her pink belly. Vulnerability always leads
to darkness. The sailboats, stagnant at the lake,
are destined to stay empty until tomorrow, no rhythmic sway
can get persons on the water at this hour. The reflection
of the masts fizzle out before elbowing shore.
One last boat pulls into the launch with ghastly fluorescents
blasting over the liquid magenta. The family hops onto the dock
to hook the boat to the hitch, let the color
drip back into her body. The sailboats pendulum
from the anchors. A girl from the boat chases
after her mutt and walks bent over through the sand
once she has him around the collar. This is the time, the dog thought,
to run. One last chance to be free before everything soft
and welcoming slides off the earth. But those sailboats
will be here tomorrow. When dusk spreads,
those boats will still shiver in the water. Come tomorrow
they’ll once again ask themselves if the world
is more than a place for trembling when others are near.

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John Muellner (he/him) is an LGBT writer from St. Paul, MN. His work can be read in Denver Quarterly, New Delta Review, Emerson Review, Harpur Palate and elsewhere. He’s currently a Departmental Poetry Fellow in NYU’s MFA program.

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