I lay my body
across the white of the catamaran, and
look at the dead space between us spread out
like the Pacific between Okinawa and Cali.
I close my eyes for a moment, hearing our
children douse themselves in the
aqueous salt of the sea.

We’ve been clashing tides lately,
coming together only under the toes
of our children. I pull high
waves out of the small drop-offs,
demanding them to dive or swim
sideways, while you let them drift
gently in your own current. We are
like the approaching squall I see
brooding dark across the ocean.

I dive my hand in the torrent of
your hair to tell you.
But you have already seen it.
“It’s heading west. It’s all right.”

For a moment, I protest,
until I see you close your eyes again.
Your face nuzzles into your elbow,
and you drift in that peaceful current
I am used to seeing; suddenly, I feel a
warm wind easing the storm away.