The Boy

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.