Frolic among seaweeds we would gather into mounds
not unlike this fall sundown’s first raking of the leaves:
I remember him laughing at my crown of sargasso; I
could still taste the brine on his fingers when he fed me
masticated rice and dried fish singed over our seaside fire.

O, Father, is there any way we could go back to that sea?

Would the long shadows on these porch walls spring you
out of my mind’s eye, dig you out of my heart? If I prayed
like I have never begged before, will you to pull me out
of this hammock, race me to the tallest rock on Poro Pt.?

Will you then mockingly laugh how flabby I have grown,
and how I needed to eat dried fish from your bare hands
and wash them down with lemon-and-salt-spiked anise.?

How long will this rusted memory last? Will you linger?

— Albert B. Casuga