From the Fishouse

The small loves are sometimes the best,
like falling in love with a man with large
hands because he waved them at you
across a table, his fingers splayed like

faulty dock joists, and all of a sudden
you are in a boat mooring up to one
of those skeltered poles, one foot over
the edge, trying to gain footing on

the tumbling slats, the ocean roiling
beneath you, the boat your one sure thing,
all you can depend on, yet you have one
leg hoisted like a flag of infidelity

waving in the air, and the man’s hands
seem like an anchor to a part of yourself
you’d forgotten, one finger pointing
its light through the fog of your life

to the town you lived in when you
were a girl. You remember it so clearly,
there, on the other side of this big, dark
sea you crossed alone. You swore

you’d never go back, no matter what
they said to lure you, no matter how
safe you’re sure it would be, these small
loves enough to slake the thirst of your

journey to this moment when one
pair of hands can suddenly break
upon you like a bucket of water
splashed against your sleeping face.