Poems
Littoral, Thalassic, Pelagic
Pieces of sea drip from you:
the Pacific, the Gulf
of Mexico.
The fishhook scars—
The L-slit entry on your palm
and puncture dot aligned
on the other side. And another,
hiding at the back of your head—
a slick, smooth slice on your scalp,
shining under hair, a dent, still discernible
after all these years—from falling
through the hatch to the cabin below.
The way you swear
that sailboat sank one night
with your whole sleeping family aboard
and resurfaced by morning,
your things drenched and salty.
You have no other explanation.
The way you casually mention
the mizzenmast and remember
to keep red on the right
when returning to port.
The way, beneath me, your body
turns to waves, your breath,
the roaring in my ears.