Coast

As children we used to coast down the slope

of the empty lot on the hill,

take the final bump, and fly over

a puddle so steep and wide we called it

an ocean.

All the way downhill

we were shrill with a wild delight

only tomboys understood.

What got me going was that easing

down the initial incline, then suddenly

going down so fast I couldn’t stop.

Control?

Control was out of the question.

The hill had gravity and a power

that took my breath away—

much as the sea, the actual ocean,

confronts me as I walk the coastline now,

lifting my eyes from wrack and wreckage,

plastics, condoms, cartons,

twisted tubing.

I look away from the tide pools and dunes, away

from the salt marsh,

and put myself out there,

at sea

centuries ago, at sea and approaching

an untrammeled coastline.

What must that have felt like!

Landfall, at last! And then everything,

everything after crossing that sand and stone margin,

unknown. To give oneself over

to the unknown entirely, whatever it takes—

surely there’s no courage like that.

Lengthening my gaze, I study the faint horizon line,

as if it might make a mark on the sky

that indicates

sea level,

as if it might tell me what we’re in for as the oceans

swell and seep closer,

flushing us out of the familiar.

What does full erasure feel like? What remains

when the coast tucks into the sea

and cities go under?

I’m not brave enough to coast down

that slope of thought.

Even as a kid,

I knew I might be fronting disaster full tilt—

that once over the lip of the slope,

there just was no stopping it.