Rudderless now, stalled, not strong
enough to move or so weak as to
be carried or held, I feel myself tidal,
sentenced by a possessive moon to float
the currents. Or a pelican choreographed
by wind undulating over cold water,
but never landing. Alone, with political
values not widely shared, I begin to see
the error in my delusion, how power
can shape perception, pull truth out to sea.
Screens tug at my brain, especially today,
the usual distractions, and that labyrinth
of twisted reality as the question,
Is this really happening? lingers, bitter,
the aftertaste of abandonment while despair
descends, acrid smoke choking my belief
that good always prevails over evil.
But in this moment, you offer
the best part of distraction with your wild
delight, blonde locks and legs flying
to reach the beach, an exuberant toddler
inviting chase. In full-stop we witness
oodles of other bodies, shrieks
in the key of joy, deliberate
choices to focus on an ocean
holding up sky with all its blue brilliance
and gauzy patches of healing.
Barefoot, we sandsurf, stopping
to pick up purple bivalves. We raise them
to light, tracing iridescence in their creases.
I run alongside you, your small hand
tucked in mine, giggles until
it no longer looks like running,
but instead, an escape
or even a rescue.

About the author:

Part of our Winter 2025 Issue. New stories, poems, and essays now through February 2025.

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