Ebb

At Pacifica

Sunset: on the pier, lovers embrace on suspensions
covered in barnacles and broken lines.
Behind them, the sunset – reflections
facing each other, the breeze tangling
their hair together like a monstrosity
found in the depths that others hope to hook.
Midnight:  on the pier, the fisherman braces
for low degrees by huddling in
a blanket, a jacket, a thermal:
layers separating him for warmth.
His hands, whipped by the wind,
reels in what he caught.  A fight
happens: both wanting to get away.
Their connection snags at the base
but the cut is simple.  He is alone again
with the crash of the ocean
scattering the moon.

In the Backyard, There is You

The gardening box held squash,
milkweed, and now rust
in the divets of nails.  You press
your weight on the screwdriver;
a burst of orange powders
your hands. You grab
the sledgehammer to break
the box into manageable pieces. 
You are only required to clean.
No, you won’t tell them
about old pets buried here –
strays nurtured, about the lemon tree
you chopped – planted on
a day when everyone was present,
about the cracks in the concrete made
from miscalculations – another wife
disappointed, about the shed – a make
shift tent,  about the lawnmower
without blades, about the baby
jars filled with seeds, about pesticide
jugs never opened, clearly labeled.