Hawaiian Sonnet

The ocean the first night wrenched, 

opened its mouth, Trust me, it said.

The second night, the tide backed out,

and I waded in. I am lost in you, I said.

I could see tankers lit on the horizon,

see my face reflected as in a holy mirror.

Sly little waves brushed against my hesitant skin,

as the tide’s tender in and out unlocked my bones.

I felt myself grow larger in the water’s wide hands,

and I thought of Whitman: I am large, I contain multitudes,

and then of you in the hotel room,

reading Whitman in your flannel pyjamas.

I so wanted you beside me, but you would have been

super uncomfortable in the water in wet pyjamas.

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