Years After I Quit the Water
The outrigger, a hull of blue
and black fiberglass seating two,
still hangs in my garage from red
rope. Often, a boy and I tread
—trod—murky water. One of few
lingering mysteries I knew
I would never know: a boy who
drank rivers; a boy who could wed
the outrigger’s
buoy to boat; who could make do
with words only for the canoe.
Floating in silence, the seabed
holding his gaze, I cursed the thread
that bound us, the body he wooed—
the outrigger.