Hands,wind chapped

twist and loop


Clove hitch

I take the rope

white and smooth 

like hands that have never tacked into the wind


Square knot

He pulls it loose


Scratch at crimson stained deck 

Where toes were painted

Pay attention, girl.

Good sailors must be alert. 

I take up the rope again 

Over, under, pull

Figure Eight


Dipping sun 

Steals our light. 

He takes my rope, 

And I am up, up, up

On his shoulders

Back toward home 

and sleep

The taste of salt in my throat. 


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