Behind our ferry, the wake
of two waves meet, high five,
dissolve into each other
like my head into
your shoulder. For nine
years, I have spoken to you
with no words. Today, we are
a forest of limbs. A seagull
bobs in the migration
lapping inland, where rustic
homes dot the shore. An urge
to throw my shoes out
the window and into the bay
runs through me as the ferry cuts
a white clearing through azure.
Scattering streaks of sun
kiss our thirsty skin. The seagull dives
and carries away a gift
of the dead towards dry sand.
We are emptied
by the day echoing across
the bay, silver
and wordless.
Photo By: Ross Pollack
