Of course we’ll say I was removed—
abducted if you’d rather. I never learned
to swim, we’ll say, or else the waves,
their brutal rush, were too much for
my feeble stroke or kick. And you—
I was heeling you, your rampage through
the sea, but you thought it was surf
or didn’t care or wanted me that much.
What I won’t say: beneath your muscled
suede I knew there moved a builder of
continents. I lay my head against your
shoulder and the world reshaped itself
before us. The scent of soil dampened by
the sea. The salt you would unleash for me.
Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English for Wheaton College. Her work appears in numerous web and print journals, including Antiphon, The Bellingham Review, The Louisville Review, and Sou’wester. Her chapbook Dear Turquoise is available from Dancing Girl Press. She serves as Managing Editor for Cider Press Review.