The alphabet of sea-terns
Aves in aria, one morning the beach filled up
with skimmers, row upon row of Rynchops niger,
birds loafing the coast in their little black hats,
red mandibles gleaming amid graceful flight.
The steady beat of long wings with my prayers
sung out over them—when they flew away, they
took the past with them. That night we learned
the tipped curve and belly of “a,” both the eager first
letter and a sigh that makes music where music
once wasn’t, satisfaction found and released
into air, dewy with longing despite itself. With
“a” came anemone, atoms, affinity. To our
surprise, later amnion, areola, abdomen—
astonishing—that they grow darker and larger
each day. But will I still love the night sky when
you arrive, still care about tide-pools and sea-terns?
My mother never spoke of such things, though she read
stars like a book never shelved. We lived our days by
them, packed under their dim glimmer when a man
shook her up or left a dark mark. Then the sea took
over, told me to call it home. I spent years trying to find
the right shoreline, uncertain yet calmed by the steady change
of tides. This, I thought, I could trust. Trust no one,
cried the gulls. Now the lights are in my eye, made
bright by salt and the confidence of heliotropes,
doing what they do by instinct alone. Still, I am
human. I think too much. In five months, it will all
make sense, your creamy newness will slide out of hiding
to breathe on your own. You, my eager first, found
and released into air, coming from two who love
the sea, from satisfaction, from the sigh-
making music dewy with longing and the perfect
convergence when you choose to let go.
