I drive to the gulf to outrun 
his aura. The neurologist prescribed 
little white pills I place under his tongue 
to stop the seize. The ocean’s grey green 
water is as still as a man before 
he convulses. An aura comes as a breeze 
and the line between this and that 
is unclear. This buoy in the Gulf 
of Mexico, that bird in the sky 
of America, this wave laps the Gulf 
of México, then breaks on the shores 
of America. It’s always mattered 
what we name a body when its whole, 
in pieces we name each appendage. 
A foam I’ve never seen collects 
on the sand and I know I can’t go 
for a swim. I want to move water 
with magnets, clean it with charcoal 
and a good net. There’s a woman whistling 
on the beach. Her aura is bright and unforgiving. 
She sings “America the Beautiful.” 
She sings: From sea to every goddamn American sea. 
I walk away but her song follows me, 
carried on by some aura I can’t outrun. 
The sky turns electrical—a zephyr lifts my hair.
You can’t help the epileptic once the seizure
starts. Turn them on their side and let it run.