Low Tides
By Caleb Merritt
(For A.L.W.)
We are mostly salt and memory in motion,
a brief gathering of current in a body we borrowed.
What we carry: unfinished apologies,
whole afternoons of silence,
the ache of someone calling our name for the last time.
At dusk, the tide pulls at the edges of my house—
not the real house, the one inside me.
A gull cries like something remembering pain
and I think: we are not built for permanence.
When the lighthouse blinks and nobody answers,
I watch a crab drag half a shell
into a place I can’t follow.
The sky peels back a little,
and there’s a hush I mistake for grace.
Some departures wear tuxedos and toast to themselves.
Yours was barefoot and backwards,
like it forgot to ask permission.
Now even the ocean pays a price to pass.
That’s how I know I’m still here.
Caleb Merritt: The TNB Self-Interview
By Caleb Merritt
You have a chapbook coming out this fall. Does that make you a poet now?
Sure, in the same way showing up to a potluck with a store-bought pie makes you a baker. I write poems. I obsess over line breaks. I dream in strange metaphors. But the word “poet” still feels like a costume I’m not allowed to wear outside.
What do you write about?
Small griefs. Big silences. The middle parts of conversations that never finish. I write about what I’m afraid to talk about directly. Mostly, I write about my mother’s garden and the people I miss on purpose.
Your work is often compared to minimalists like Kay Ryan and Jack Gilbert. Are those conscious influences?
Gilbert, yes. I came to Ryan later. But I think I’m mostly influenced by people who weren’t trying to write poetry. The note my friend left on my windshield after she moved. The way my grandfather said “well” when he didn’t mean anything in particular. I don’t need to look far for poetry—it’s usually hiding in the mundane.
Are you hard to live with?
Probably. I think too much. I ask a lot of questions mid-bite. I need time alone to feel human again, which can be misread as withdrawal. And I reread texts three times before replying, if I reply at all. So yes, definitely.
If you could summarize your aesthetic in one word, what would it be?
Tidepool. Things left behind. Things barely breathing. Things still beautiful, even when they don’t move.
You say you don’t like social media, but you’re pretty active online. Why?
Because poetry lives there too. You’d be surprised what sneaks into your feed between screaming headlines and vacation photos. A good poem at the right time can interrupt a spiral. It can remind you you’re more than your scrolling.
You seem ambivalent about the publishing world.
I think I’m allergic to ambition. Or at least to performative ambition. I want the work to be good. I want it to matter to someone. But I don’t care about being seen in the way people mean that now. I’ll take a reader who lingers over one poem for weeks over a thousand who skim and forget.
Favorite compliment you’ve received?
“Your poem made me text someone I haven’t talked to in years.”
And your least favorite?
“You should put more positive energy into your writing.” I write about real things. They’re not always cheerful, but they’re honest. I think there’s kindness in that.
Will there be a full-length collection someday?
Maybe. I’m not in a rush. I’d rather write one unforgettable poem than fifty competent ones. And I think the world has enough books by people who were told they had to publish or disappear. I’m okay with taking the long way around.
What would you be doing if you weren’t writing poetry?
I’d open a little bookstore-slash-café with too many plants and mismatched mugs. I’d name it “After the Pause.” Serve strong coffee and host open mics where no one gets shushed.
Caleb Merritt is a poet, teacher, and sometime barista living in a blue house with creaky stairs in upstate New York. His first chapbook Low Tides, Late Light is forthcoming from Willowbark Press. He believes in small poems, long walks, and the healing power of slow conversation.
