The Night After Our First Big Fight

Maegan Gonzales 

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.

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