The Boy With His Mother Inside Him
You said meet me by the harbor church, tide wall, little beach,
and while I waited I walked into the water, salt in the flare
of my jeans. A light went on in the house next door,
a stranger was farther down the shore, no moon, ocean quiet
with me waiting. When I stood, I felt the darkness of the tar,
and then the darkness of the night, and then you were behind the turn
of my head, behind my one Heidi-ponytail, behind my green
corduroy jacket, the night like a big hat on my head
turned with me to see you.
Originally appeared in The New Yorker; and
published in Underwater City, University Press
of Florida, 2004.
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