Going Out

Legs. . .Low Tide
The Brine Shed
Lubec, Maine

Going Out

Today we have to stand in the absolute rain

and face whatever comes from God,

or stop to smooth the earth over little things

that went into the dirt, out of the world.

                                                                                ‘The Lyf So Short…’

                                                                                William Stafford

When the tide’s in far enough

the boat will float up from the rest--

the hull of it is taken in

and the bow and the stern

and every rib, in turn, every

ding every bit of grain or fiber-

glass, every rock of salt and
Pennzoil slick bait blood and 

outboard motor ooze, the jackets
and flares stowed the hatch as tight as it is

going to be.  Somehow there’s

moon enough to see

by, waning as it may, this time

of the year, be.  Following

his code of instincts it’s all

loaded and he tips himself in

and pulls the chord and it won’t

start and it won’t start

and he fiddles and swears

and pulls and a catch a small catch

to ease and coax and drift

slow (or seem like drifting) on

the glass top cove in water

the color of the owner's or worlds

soul.  Won’t he go out in dark

like this, and didn’t I always

want to—as a kid—didn’t I—

to know where it was they all

got to, the men and some women

who fled to catch to hook to drag

to bail out over the gunwales to cut

the outboard out in the middle

of all that water, didn’t I want

the sound of it in me too, when

the day’s work through—all the traps

or chain drags set in their

clean bait or wings and the day’s

catch smooching under sea-

weed, smooching their shells

and scales and banded claws

their slow scrim and crawl over each, under

each other, and like them I wouldn’t

want to, maybe, for a while, come

back to shore on a day like this

when all the mistakes I’d made

on land didn’t matter at all

and weren’t rooted, weren’t coming to

bud, weren’t plunged

and plundered by wasps, weren’t

chucked up weren’t made

thick to be stored for that day

of rest when the predator arrives

to burn it a all down, every scrap

every echo of every laugh

so that when I get back it’s ash

alone I’m left with to run my fingers

through, some the color of skin,

and I think what must that have

been when I was home here, when

I was on land, when all I could

think about was going out

going out with him, into—just

into—with the littlest boat

and no shore absolutely

in sight?