for D

I thought about taking a picture.
To capture what? I decided to live 

through the present moment instead: 
ephemeral glaze, sentimental risk 

with the numb tips of our chilled noses 
grazing as we kissed and kissed. 

The deep, droning whir of the ferry 
boat bloating over Casco Bay, sailing 

away from the fringe of Portland, Maine.
It’s inside the small, silent slices of time—

right? The terror of new love! The sun-
stung ripples, which made our eyes drip, 

refracting and whiting out the landscape 
to bright cream as we approached Peaks 

Island. Who lives there? We wondered 
and imagined as we gasped at the pristine 

houses with massive windows perched 
along the periphery. Talkless minutes 

dotted with intermittent seagulls squawking 
overhead. Cold crunch of November air. 

Gentle foam frothing and trailing the stern. 
It was almost sunset when I leaned back, 

softened, and nuzzled deep in the camber 
of your embrace, your chest another miracle 

of comfort, your arms, another possible 
home. I wasn’t worried about being

too much of myself—yet. In love 
again. The first time since the damage 

of my divorce. It was gradual, subtly 
somatic without the anxiety attached. 

You slipped in like a beloved book 
or special knickknack that had always 

been there, but somehow, I’m just now 
seeing it on the shelf stacked and floating 

in the part of my heart I’m trying to keep 
ajar with a keener warmth. This it. Or itness? 

A gentleness, a personal dispersal, not 
of light, but a fresh, odd, familiar feeling—

this bluing calmness not totally erasing 
the old fears but welcoming the chance 

to try again, to be brave again.

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