The Moon Strikes The First Wave

Beach 72nd and Beach 96th

You asked me why I didn’t call you.


Yes I was in town

“But I almost drowned,” 

Text back. The first time I hesitate

To send a text back.


“I almost drowned.”

And it’s true when I say it.

Because it’s good to change the subject;

My mother swallows the Whore and The Fag at the table,

And salivates the salacious story of a girl who almost drowned.


“I think the Moon controls more than we think,”

You said once. You sat across me 

Stirring a dumpling with a chopstick through the cold broth. 


I don’t know why people look so much more beautiful in memories of them, but when I see you, 

eyes soft and boyant,

like the dumplings, 

your toasty complexion, the braille across your back, wood chip toenails. 


When I see, skin is like marshmallow fluff

or yellow syrup sliding over snow hills

or taught sunset apple skin. 

But I know you were rougher than that. And I loved it.


“I don’t want to think about that,”

Text back his Mother Moon. 

This angler’s temptation, 

Brought the mouth of my heart up to her hook, 

And the penetrating feels like iron line cast to sea.


I’m landlocked 

and I feel waves. Beneath me, Beach 72nd Street.


My lover’s breath grows still as he tries to follow the navy waters,

And that is when I awaken.