Packing list:

1 thermos of coffee – brewed black as forgetting

1 copy (dog-eared) of Partridge’s Origins – for saltwater etymologies

6 gallons of gas – mixed 50:1, wonder and terror

Assorted fishing lures and treble hooks, ground sharp as memory

One: Grip primer bulb, feel where salt and sun have pitted 

its black rubber. Pump until firm. Turn ignition key.

Still Life with Weather Radio

When I find the photo in his desk drawer

from the old beach house 

I fall deep into memory’s orbit.

It’s the kind of picture only he took

– no one in frame, no context – 

just objects on the green Formica bar. 

Beside the sunflower-yellow cooler 

the weather radio’s red eye peers 

at the curled top-sheet of a legal pad

where a note in his jagged script 

explains how to calculate tides 

from Mobile Point to Point Legere.

Two: Jiggle throttle to be sure boat is in neutral. Choke 

as you turn ignition again. Swear under your breath.

Boats of Ash 

My father, freshly shaved, smells 

of Barbasol and Marlboros. I am six.  

He looms over me as he teaches 

me to tie my school tie. I feel 

his cigarette blaze by my ear, 

hear its tobacco crackle.  

Flecks of ash float down on my tie

–  tiny pale boats on a sea 

of navy (with red and white stripes).  

In our reflections, I watch his gray eyes  

scan behind gold-rimmed aviators.

He sips coffee, assesses his handiwork.

Three: Curse yourself for not knowing more about outboards.

Turn key a third time. Listen to the flywheel’s hyena laugh.

How to Know Impossible Things

Lately, when I dream of my father 

we happen upon one other 

on some street I don’t know 

or in a house I’ve never been inside.

We’re surprised to meet like this 

but recognize each other instantly. 

Always, I feel a twinge of embarrassment

because he doesn’t realize he’s dead

(just the kind of loophole he’d find)  

I know then, the way in dreams, 

we know impossible things, that my duty 

is to keep him from finding out. 

Four: Invoke gods you don’t even believe in. Turn key again.

Cheer when engine sputters to life and coughs itself smooth.

Reading The Gulf 

Nothing moves like open water: 

whitecaps break, the wind 

crosshatches its surface

like miles of hurried script

dashed onto paper 

in defiance of forgetting.

This image arrives at sleep’s coast: 

foam-topped waves roll ashore

like pages of an endless book.

I dream chapter after chapter 

of moonlit spindrift and feast on words 

so grand only the sea can sound them out.