I
The sea knocks the boy down. The boy
punches white wave foam, kicks icy water.
When the sea returns, a bigger surging wave.
The boy grips his black boogie board,
heralds the gods with a ninja scream, and floats
over the beckoning curl. The boy rages.
He rages against the sea. This time he wins.
II
The next time. He rages against me.
Bloodshot eyes from too much
of the sea. Boogie boarding all afternoon.
I wasn’t there. He was raging
his own time. Tasting salt. Fettering grains
of sand under a wetsuit. It was
all him. I was doing
other things. The boy rages against
going to sleep. I say, “I’m the adult.
You must do what I say.”
III
Really. I mean. Truly. It is.
This little boy. In a bed. In a
guest room. When I try to explain.
He understands. Too much.
Too much about how the moon pulls
the human heart and when tides rise too high
all is torn asunder. He holds his breath tight
and rages against the moon at midnight,
against a boogie board cracked in two,
against a father who won’t be coming back.
