Tide

Meanwhile the sea moves uneasily, like a woman

who, turning toward the window, might take in

a breath, might tuck in the navel, or a leg under

the other. She brings a finger to the pulsing in her

chest, presses in, reaches down

to find a flatter stone. Reels back and hurls

it against the waves. Eleven months ago I was sick,

and it feels like the kind of sickness we choose

in the face of helplessness, wine-dark

curling like the tide, and beautiful,

which is why we keep coming here:

to watch it, or that’s what we

tell each other. How quickly

we give in to it. How quickly I give

in and out, in and out.