I want to make it spiritual / but only remember bouncing, / barely balanced on the slick / rubbery hull of a dinghy / near Caño Island, Costa Rica. / I am one in a row of divers / waiting for the command / to roll backwards into the ocean.
Do they remember, that girl /
treading water in her cabin /
or the mother who held on /
for a long, last hour, praying /
until the tree itself gave way?
The long stroke of raven’s oar /
dips into deep sky and cuts across /
the fast-moving shadow of a turkey vulture.
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