Seiche
MONICA RICO
When the rain came, I was relieved
not to yank another sail on. Leave my bruises
alone. It was still too cold to soak, even for
September I kept a sweater and coat on. As always
I forgot I’m a piece of earth mixed into a brown landscape,
but I made my rice anyway in the swinging galley.
Hatch opened when the rain quit and the sea moved
branches, brought back broken with the wait for the flight of the tern.
The boat balanced on the edge of the dock while the pilings
submerged and sank under a gush of Michigan. The lines limp
as eels chasing the white back of an electrical cord.
Back down the hatch, rice steaming, and the tick of water
trickled through the splintered two by fours. The blue
lines wrung their braids and arched their backs.