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I

Tiny silver sails catching the breath I leave,
carrying small craft across seashell cochlea to dock
in Buzzard’s Bay, where my grandfather taught me
to avoid the boom as it swings overhead.

Sails unfurl in my fingers
open bedsheets
airing out
and the same wind whispers
family dinners underwater, burbling about our day
filling your mouth with the same salt water


II

That night,
I osmosed you through humming peripheries,
rocking, swaddled
in swelling chords and dark speckled
with die-cut moonbeams (illuminating the first
of things I’ll know)
bobbing on wind waves