Over the starboard side,
Five thousand miles north of my Mexican home,
The swelling sea tumbles in
As I string out net and worry over the expiration
Of my ninety day visa.

When the motor conks out, I row back to the seiner
Imagining Isabel in the bow seat, trailing a languid finger
Through glassy water. But the water is not glassy
And Isabel is not here
But waits in the mountains of Michoacan.

On shore in the phone booth
Listening to her soft voice
Pitched north through wires
Over mountains
Across deserts and tundra
To this little town
On this little island
Forever shrouded in rain

I shiver, stomp one foot
Then the other against the boardwalk
To coax blood to my fish-smelling feet,

And tell her about the haul:
How with my back athwart the oars,
My feet braced against the transom
I rowed through three foot swells
Licked at pearls of sweat clinging to my lip
And reined in nets
Full of fish
I'll never taste.

The next morning as the wake thunks
Against the gunnel
The sun squeaks through
A crack in the clouds.

The sea is clear!

As far as I can see
Jellyfish float
Like skin lamps.

With the sun warming my face
I close my eyes
And am in a meadow with Isabel,

Around us
Butterflies light
like flowers
upon flowers --

Whose colors obscure
One from another, their tongues
curling
like conch shells.