Our single sail
had coupled with the boat’s best
following wind, a rolling beech-hulled breeze –
all restive, singing, massive, lone -
the resounding mirror of the sun below
left my eyes twisted with nothing
where too much light had been
left the rudder a paralyzed limb
too weak to stop or slow.
Your own pull on the line bear-strong,
when you made it work for you,
but the quick speech of your hands
came like a moment of glacier into that
wing-beat
when your silence was too long
that left you the promise of stillness
and knowledge of care
for this boat we built in spring.
Speed’s echo pulled us to this shallow inlet.
Where derelicts nest with opal eyes
beneath the surface
where the entryway perches in irons
and mute birds foul
the pale web of our rigging.
Where the poetry of our bodies is dismal
and lonely,
the kiss and the snarl drink together in corners.
Your hands that sang me
to sleep in the open waters
speak only of themselves
and your cold blue bombardier’s stare
and its inner Arctic silence
that waits
to drink our coming shadow
like I would rain.