POEM · PUERTO RICO
The boardwalk ends in sand. Beyond it, the bay opens between two dry hills, blue rubbed pale by afternoon. You walk ahead of me. One plank bows under your step, then rises. For a second the whole path keeps the shape of your weight. At the tide line, sea grass has dried into a dark seam. A blue bottle cap among the shells flashes once, then vanishes when the wash comes in. The trees stop at the beach. Behind us, the boards slip back into scrub and shade. Before us, small waves worry the same narrow margin of grass and sand. I photograph you there— one hand on the rail, your face turned toward the water— while the sun lays a clear edge along your shoulder and then removes it. Later, sand follows us into the car, the room, the folded cuffs of our clothes. Weeks afterward, on our kitchen tile, one pale grain loosens from the sole of your shoe. It is almost nothing. Still, the bay opens: the dry hills, the dark sea grass, the last plank lifting after you stepped from it.