The Island
We packed the coolers, remembered hats,
took Charlie’s cabin cruiser across the bay.
Landed on the island, its one house, white clapboard
on a rocky shore. Swam the tidal cut till it turned.
In a room upstairs, a white curtain fluttered
as we napped and read.
Supper was fresh-caught bluefish
roasted in coals; tomatoes, corn.
The long ride home, we were sunburnt
and salty. Sleeping kids were lifted
over the gunwales, carried
up the pier and home to bed.
Some moments are memories
even as they’re happening.
All of us together that day. Together and alive.
The whoosh of the tide through the cut.
Salt on skin; the smoky fish.
The sun, the curtain’s lightness and lift.
WCAI Poetry Sunday, June 14, 2020