Stacie McCall Whitaker - Stone Coast, Maine

Canet de Mar

  1. Beach

From the ruffled awning of a xiringuito

we sniff the brine-slaked air, chew salty strips

of calamari, wash them down

with tinto de verano.


The waves are tiny now, but over time

have worn hard shingle-stone to russet sand.

Each grain is round, hard on the feet

like a marble, like a planet.


  1. Balcony

The black iron balcony

is strong enough to hold our weight,

plus cheese and olives, a bottle of Estrella,

glass of wine. Facing us,


gray windows, dust on plants and sills.

I could almost reach across the street

and feel the stucco walls that face us

and rub the smudge off of my fingertips.



  1. Halls and Alleys

With dusk, the alleys fill with shadows

and words in Catalan float up—

a mother calls her child to bed, a boy

pleads with his little mutt.


I put my beer down in the darkness

and sense the wash of your strong pulse:

through halls a thousand miles long,

the beat of your surf-stubbornness.

About the Author

David Salner has worked as iron ore miner, steelworker, machinist, bus driver, cab driver, longshoreman, teacher, baseball usher, and librarian. His writing appears in recent issues of The Threepenny Review, Salmagundi, Beloit Poetry Journal, North American Review, Nashville Review, and many other magazines. He is the author of Blue Morning Light (2016, Pond Road Press).