The Mystery of a Lee Tide

To wait, to cut, to be free.

Nov 9, 2022

Something pulled our ship
around the violent coast.

Rumor was a Russian submarine,
maybe a monster whale.

My uncle pulled his filet knife
but the line went slack,

like how you’d hang up on a friend
at the end of a tin can phone call.

No one seemed ready to do much talking.
We waited on deck, our eyes begging

for shadows as the bow settled
with the ripple taps of a lapping hull,

a heartbeat pulse in our temples, in
our throats — to wait, to cut, to be free.