The little red boat.
The fishermen.
Sun turning lemon.
Water flump, flump, flumping
against the fiberglass hull
as if a seal has mistaken it
for a ball.
We are at the quiet end,
I remember.
I remember
you pretending to love the bikini
I sewed.   Discount seersucker,
yellow and white stripes.
You are plastered with sunscreen
to keep from burning.    Army
examiner once put down
“complexion, ruddy.”  We laugh
about it to this day.  We are at
Lake Jordan, our favorite.
I remember.
I remember
casting off.  A woman puts down
a pail and points at us.  “Too
dinky to be a boat.”  she razzes.
“Ask me, it’s a biscuit tray!”
But sail, we do.  After a fashion.
Sailors, we ain’t.   Ask the three
beered-up fishers who row  by
as we attempt to tack.   “Aren’t
married, I can tell,” the one in the
Duke cap shouts.  “Too happy!” 
You wave your left hand, then I do.
Sunlight makes our wedding bands
give off sparks.  Time to take turns
stretching out to catch rays.  Flump,
flump, flump.  Newly pregnant cloud
scuds near, we zig and zag slapstick
style, finally make it to shore.
Next  day at work I show off my new
vocabulary.  “Tacking is for the  birds!” 
Then, Love, I remember
adding. “Rain starts to spit, we are,
like,  h e l p !”   “We” part feels
so good, I can’t stop repeating.
I remember.
I remember the best part
is showering with you after.
The mesmerizing tingle.  The sudden
discovery we ’re not tired, after all.
Best part, did I say?   Reserve that
for remembering together,
Love,
as we sail the best we can
into the sunset,  basking
on sun- and moon-catching waves
of two become
One.

For Ray    (c) Phyllis Jean Green,   April, 2010