Jamie Wasserman
Maybe he just meant to take her
along the coast, to show her
clouds reflecting soft and tremulous
on the surface of the water
like someone's breath on your ear.
But the sun and the tide
were too low so he waited with her
on the beach until dusk
when the light settled on the ocean
gentle as a hand across a knee.
Maybe she grew cold so close
to a place where the wintered Atlantic
sank into the sand
like a body heavy with sleep
so he put his hands, his thick hands
around her to keep her warm
and whispered that the ocean would return
and would she like to wait it out.
Yes, he asked her that.
And when she began to cry
because all she could see
was the thin line of the horizon
stretched taut as a nerve
he became angry. He had seen
the waves before, knew the tides,
the way they faded then returned
relentless as someone
pacing an empty house.
He only wanted to show her
what he had seen beneath the surface—
pebbles, starfish, seaweed;
loose things, discarded things
that the tide would reveal
as if peeling back a bandage.
He was doing this for her,
but he would take her
home if she would only stop crying.
It was dark by now. He forgot
how they had gotten there,
could not even recognize his own hands.
They were so rough
compared with the soft shoulder
he held and so when he touched her
it was only the way you might
touch the hem of a dress,
testing the fabric to see
if it's something you want
against your body.
Perhaps so close to her
he heard her small breath
barely audible over the beat of the waves
and wanted to bring her nearer,
to listen for a heartbeat, to hold her
like a shell to his ear.
