He hated boats and her mother

lived on one. She invited him

to go, he went, no horror stories

from that December on the ocean,

at least not ones I’ve heard, the two

of them in t-shirts I now wish

I owned, sleeping under and on

top of polished wood, I imagine

that the fish they ate was very

good, flaking off in chunks to fill

their mouths and bathing suited

stomachs, the swelter of the sky

like a unrelenting aunt, and the noise

of wind rushing through their hair

was the loudest noise their ears

could comprehend