The Night After Our First Big Fight
In the dream, you are a sailor
and we marry the day we meet.
You have children and an ex-wife.
The children – ours, too – I see now vividly.
Our oldest daughter with hair long and black
since birth. Wild ringlets caught in the wind.
She cries with quiet green eyes, brooding.
Our youngest boy – still awkward in his body –
flails his arms and spins sand. You call to him
sandstorm, waves of yellowed hair swirling.
His eyes wide like coffee, ground, and dark ocean
marbled. He says green is the strongest element.
You are called to leave our family
for three months, maybe six – probably not
a whole year. I don’t know how long
we’ve been married, but I live a lifetime.
There are days we return to this rocky beach
examining overturned sea stars
collecting sand dollars with our girls
stick-poking washed-up jellies with our boys.
Muddy, earth-tinted clouds churn the sky.
There are so many storms while you are home.
You know when they’re coming – an old salt’s nose –
and in the dream, you stay.