(inspired by Cambria, California– August 2010)
We tiptoed like children across low-tides,
waiting for the pacific ridge to swallow us whole.
Cave mouths echoed the cambric breeze,
their rough centers spill milky seafoam at the mercy of our feet,
crushing sand dollars half-priced for infinite gems
like burnished gold dust between fingers.
It was summer of ’09 when I first met you.
You were a biologist, a dreamer. I watched you count the waves before noon,
until they washed up some unknown specimen, knowing their names
in automatic taxonomy:
Strongylocentrotus purpuratus, Mirounga angustirostris, Enhydra lutris.
You taught me the stars,
the celestial freckles littering the fragile fabric of your back.
How light bent light off your shoulders
as I traced constellations, big and little. Major and minor.
How gravity pulled the moon towards the cliff-rocks, how we had felt
the attraction we couldn’t even see but existed clinging to us,
this shoreline in some marriage of sea and sky,
High and dry pockets of hydrogen and oxygen
beneath two deeps, an implode of breath rolling in like currents
waiting for our touch.
© Rebecca Goes Rendezvous, 2020