You drag the boat across the tallgrass, shake out
the black snakes that made a provisional home under the bow
through the length of winter. The rope undone
for the first time in months, it slews behind you
through dirt, then shallow water, a thin trail
that follows you deeper into the afternoon, submits to the pull
of you, or perhaps the pull of the other shore. So sure you are
in your solitude, and I am startled to sit here, witness it.
How smooth is your sailing away, this measured
but steady drifting under pink, penumbral light. When we first met
you portioned your stories, or they came brash, a light tower’s
unpredictable beam. Resolving to muteness the year your father
could no longer hear you, then woodwork, then a decade
of travel. Tulum. The Mont Blanc where the five-foot two French guide
hauled you out of a crevasse. The Norwegian girl you met at a bar
in Cambodia who followed you back, wanting
to show you the ring on her labia. Her Janis Joplin tattoo. I follow you now
with my late summer eyes. Why do I love watching you like that,
cruising away from me? As if you are teaching me something
about love and distance. Two red-tailed hawks surrender
their shadows to the thicket of spruces. You stare up,
then past your left shoulder. I think, at me. The wind tugs at every
boat in our world. A hushed push and pull, a measure of faith
travels the distance between us. Buoyant as day, thin as light.
Copyright © 2025 by Avia Tadmor. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 31, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
