In time with the tide,
he’d come and go.
Early he’d rise to slice
through rough water,
later he’d tumble
through the front door-
hair a salty shock
of soft blonde,
pink shoulders slumped,
bare feet sanded,
green eyes lidded
against sun.
He’d tell me
I needed to try it sometime
and come with him.
Nothing like it, he’d say,
show me photos of waves
taken from the clutch
of blue barrels,
every tight curl
glowing like
an aquarium.
But doesn’t it hurt
when you can’t
make it out of them?
Oh, like hell.
Sometimes, you’re sure
that you’ll drown,
that you’ll choke.
But then,
you don’t.
You surface and sit,
catch your breath
for a minute,
then you paddle
back out
for the next one.
pm poetry 