Touching the Sound

The ocean folded, lifted my father,
my sister and me up on to
her shoulders as the tide
came in and the wind tried
to blow her back out. The light
on the cliff boasted with blinking
phases—new to full in quick
revolutions. But I knew I’d find
no patience there. I went back
to the steady vibrations of line
dropping into the abyss. 

With pulses from floor
to fingers we picture
the schools of clucking Sea
Robins. I must have seen
her, really seen her, 
without knowing it—we
are pulling at one another,
and my wrist hurts, and
she’s tired. When we meet,
I think, I know you
and I’m sorry, so I thank her
and her mother. Only when
her tail was still, did
the moon that had
been with us, all morning,
give herself over to daylight.