By Theresa Sullivan

Somewhere a tidal wave holds still for us…
-Jeffrey McDaniel

Nobody lives for ordinary things
except us, so it seems. After dodging
train doors  and plane flights even
thin coffee and twin sheets are a foreign
marvel, tinged in the miracle of
waking in the quiet beside you again. On this side

of the world the wind greets us with a
fierceness whistling through the pier
and tonight thick fog rolls over the
beach, brown waves tossing over and over
as we hold cold hands and make our
stormy peace with the undertow. Before you

I inventoried holes, the
emptiness instead of the flesh.
I catalogued all the places
where life had taken something
in return— the scar through my palm,
the knuckles I’ve scraped,
the knees I’ve skinned, failed leaps of
faith like falling up the stairs.

But here the Mediterranean is dark and beneath my feet
the sand forgives this pavement, water lapping
over the stains of spilled wine running
in rivulets, misgivings trickling away
through the slate and crimson cracks. Here I want

more of this, more midnights
and chances at wholeness,
wet ropes of hair clinging to my back,
the slow sting of Spanish rain.  Nearby

our lamplit friends sit drinking
cervezas on this plaza but we’re
dancing, slow-revolving on the wet tile,
tiny beneath this velveteen sky,
laughing, always running and
running out of time.