island girl

I stuck a sandwich in her mouth.

she swam every wave

that crashed against

the shore of Lake Michigan

that sizzling summer day.

gulping the turkey down,

happy to replace some of the

calorie lost in the movement

of water and sand,

she turned an eye to

the continued maelstrom

that was the day’s condition.

‘the waves are calling me,’

she whispered to it,

not me who was insistent

that she stay 15 more minutes

on the towel to settle the

slug of food and drink,

but the lake entranced her

and called her home-

island girl that she is.

standing, her little suit stretched

tight across an Irish derriere,

her Puerto Rican stamp,

sun darkened, nut-brown.

‘the waves are calling me.’

fearless, not afraid to call back

the tide whether in the darkness

of the North Atlantic or

crystal blue light of the Caribbean,

she walked into it with conviction,

her sweater, her skin, marked

with both tribes that let

it be perfectly known that

the sea, the water, could not drag her under.

‘the waves are calling me,’

and she pulled me up from the sands

to ride across and through any danger

she sensed. island girl:

as happy on land as in the sea.

selke, her seal coat water resistant

and protective of current and drag.

the waves call her, home.