Galveston Island

I know the seawall, the ferry, the seagulls,
the old bread from the freezer door to feed
the seagulls on the ferry that takes us to the
seawall, picnic bench shanties on the beach,
jumping waves with my brother, the taste of
saltwater and sand: Onward! Deeper! then asleep
in the backseat on the way back home wrapped in
wet beach towels; our collection of shells,
hermit crabs still in their homes, now in boxes.

Drift too far down the shore and it's too far
back to walk; bike too fast down the seawall
with the wind pushing you on and there is no one
coming to get you. My father will say, "When you
get old enough to drive, remember to take out your
car and let it go empty just to see how far it will go.
Keep a gas can in the back with enough to get home
but find out just how far that needle will fall."

Like in school when you take your compass, draw a
radius, pull it through to create a circumference:
this is how much my legs can stretch, as far as my
pencil will reach. I find this advice to be true.
Or perhaps I turn it into truth, like the seagulls
following our ferry for freezer bread, drawing fewer
circles as years pass and living within their curve.

But today we sink our toes deeply in the wet mud,
write our names in the sand with sharp sticks and
watch those secrets wash away in the rising tide.
A circle knows what I wish it to see, and I say
Onward! Deeper! to the ocean: carry me off
to the end of the coast with your drifting.


2011