She dives under gloss of waves, tangles
in yellow webs of surface sun, stands
in waist high water. Streams of the Atlantic
drain from dazzling shoulders. When she
reaches shore, her weightless shadow
seeks balance, blinks a blinding look upward
where seagulls scratch blue marks
on a square of sky. Neck snaked up, she stares
at cumulus clouds that have shaped
into a motel room like the one last night
in which an admirer charmed her out of secrets.
No doubt, she will not see him again,
a traveling man bent on a new location.
Yet, it wasn’t a seduction. They had bargained
for each other.
Shreds of last night stick to her skin like sand
on the bottom of her feet. Tonight she will not
hang at Burman’s Bar. She will return
to watch the sea churn a broken moon,
to see the silk of evening make a safe path
of light to shore, and she will sleep satisfied
to be beyond the hunger of a man’s way.
Her door will be closed to self-serving passion.
She will lie down alone, doorway within reach
of the sea, breasts only as warm as her own breath.