Skinny dipping in mid-June, there are nightfishers on the beach
And the lights they use are red eyes staring back at us
that blink in and out of consciousness from their judgmental tripods
we run into the water with hands over our breasts, laughing as if there were some invisible crowd
this solace after the storm that dredged up mounds of seaweed
like piles of a woman’s hair, tangling in our toes
and in this scene I would like to think that all of this island is a woman
in the same way that god is (and all her ancient mothers call in the same song as the waves)
“Let me stay here,” I want to say, in the thistle-whipped fire
of the nightfishers’ red beams that vainly try to lure some greater force
and the moon is cutting endless horizons into the sea’s languid face
as the sand cups her cool hand against our wind-soaked shoulders, gently
falling in love with the phosphorescents that turn our movements into soft and falling stars.
A call, loud and mean, while flashes of light rise just over the beach grass to our backs
the neighbor’s sons tumble towards us.