Turning Point

The outrigger canoe pushed off into deeper water, neither of us 
responsible for rowing. Two boys from the village, their bodies a dark
and glistening mahogany from the sun— their movements effortless, 
their faces indifferent to our unvoiced pain. And noon was a hand 
pushing down on the center of my brain. Or perhaps I was giddy
from the green motion of the waves, the distance we'd covered
so quickly that took us farther from the sable strip that was
the shore. There are moments of clarity that flash as if 
with a message from a future you already inhabit. 
The sea was an unbroken sheen of such deep color.
When I understood, I bent over the side of the boat
and heaved and heaved into the water 
as if I had to empty myself of everything
before I could become myself again. 

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