In the Harbor
by Kerrin McCadden
I love the moment after buckling the seat belt
in a plane, headed god knows where—anywhere.
How I know there is no way to do laundry, dishes,
or fix a leak, everything is all fuck it back behind me
on the ground once I’ve lifted off, which I think
is almost but also nothing like that moment after
the Aquitania has started moving, but first the smaller
boat in the harbor, which maybe I am on with them
when time happens again, starts to move, out to sea.
Last night we drank all night like I was the new dead
one, the stories told again and again like prayers.
When we are out to sea, we look back to see faces
ringing the shore like a fence, those we love in up
to their hips in waves, waving goodbye like mad.