May, our senior year,
a last night together
before separate crossings.
Cruising the sticky St. Louis night
in Stuart’s family wagon.
6 of us shoulder to shoulder.
Paul turns to me,
earnest,
desperate,
I’m a Texas redneck football jock, he says,
and you’re a fucking hippy.
But I love you man.
Toking, passing the scrappy joint.
Brushing ashes and embers from lap to lap.
Stop at a red light somewhere down on Delmar
Kathy’s powder blue Chevy pulls up alongside
The ladies, says Stu
And slouches, cool, one hand draped easy on the wheel
Isn’t that Claire, says Oscar
And just like that
I’m gone

The others are too wasted to notice
and Paul's riding a serious testosterone rush
but Oscar sees.
Don’t go there man, he says.
Come on back brother.
But I got my forehead to the glass
and I could be 4 or 6 or 8,
not eighteen anymore.
Forehead to the glass
outside looking in
inside looking out.


Another season.
Another crossing.
23 now.

Trip ashore for groceries and the mail.
No letters today.
All the fleet on their moorings
pointing north
into the wind
me going south
just me, heading south
out of the harbour
off and away again,
open skiff on the open sea.

Early winter grey pressing down over
harsh and sullen seas
stirred by a heavy, restless wind.
Running alone to the island.

Got my back to America
and the lights of town all dim behind.
The wind smells of snow and emptiness.
I shift my hands on the wheel
shivering.

Walking up the hill
past the shuttered houses in the old village
the wind like a knife now
picking at dried grass and branch and stone as it passes.
Hands wet from the mooring rope
and aching like fire
stiff and clawlike
and aching.
Like a knife slash.
Like missing you.
Like my forehead pressed against the glass
outside looking in
inside looking out.

Inside the house
out of the wind.
Alone in a stunning silence,
my hands shake
as I lay a fire in the cold stove.
Strike a match.
Strike another.
Watch the miracle of flame amidst the kindling sticks and curled birch bark.
This is as cold as it will be,
I tell myself.
And take comfort
knowing I am inside
out of the wind.
There in the house at the top of the hill
the last house in America before the open sea.
Inside.
Looking out.