Grace (2019)

Along the horizon the sea is smooth like glass. 
I scuff salt from my shoes and shuffle forward. 
My legs haven't caught the sea's rhythm yet. 
For years I left the boat in drydock, 
only occasionally checking her hull 
until today when I flooded the slip. 
The sail unfolded like a magazine 
when I freed the shrouds and raised the mast. 
I ran and ran through endless water 
until the breeze died and I sat a while 
but impatience impels me forward. 
I don't like standing still. 

At the pulpit fish swim beneath my feet. 
I stand like a figurehead, feet apart, 
seeking balance against the waves. 
Distant bells proclaim the depths. 
I brought no guide or radio, 
trusting my experience, 
but perhaps I shouldn't return to sea 
with so little preparation.
I could read my old charts, but they seem
as out-of-date as I am.  

I turn my cheek to a breezy kiss 
and watch my pennant flutter. 
I regard my place at the wheel: 
the chair is cracked, the vinyl faded. 
It's a comfortable seat nonetheless.
From here to any point of the compass, 
I can turn me hard alee to meet the wind, 
or turn my back against it as it blows.  

It's funny, the way I remember it.
Once the water was foamy and wild, 
now it's peaceful. I could learn to like it. 
I turn to port and watch the mainsail billow, 
a swollen cheek, the blood-red boom its lips.