Sometimes I wonder if you believe

I should I have been

swept away by the last storm.

 

Tonight, as the town hushes

down to sleep, I run

hot water over white dishes

 

and watch you 

through the kitchen window

as you step out 

onto the dock. You switch

 

the light that turns

the sea so pale 

it’s possible 

 

to see to the bottom,

through the green heaving

chest of water. 

 

Was I the fresh lumber

for the part of the dock

that was missing?  

 

Was I the oyster shell 

who sliced your heel

in the slap of the salt water?

 

Was I the balm 

your father soothed across the cut 

and then wiped from his hands

with a rough red towel?

 

You run a finger 

over the wood’s blond dust

and slip it 

in your mouth just to see. 

 

And the fish rise to you 

with their sore mouths 

going open and open 

with their questions.