Bad Sailing Poems

I told you that today was special—a holiday for True Love.

Isn't that so beautiful?

You said that we should go out on the boat;

that every holiday should be celebrated on the boat.

Even the ones in February.

I'm going to my sister's.




Our love is a compass set to True North—

outdated technology

that is totally due for an upgrade.




You say being on the boat makes you seasick

and the Dramamine only makes you sleepy

yet there you sit, tucked in the quarter berth

with your phone in your face for two hours.

Like, right—

show me some hilarious thing a cat did.




The wind in your hair,

the tangy scent of salt on the back of your neck;

You don’t need to go down below to fart.

It's okay.

The sea air forgives all.





Your eyes, steadfast on the horizon but never on me.

What you call ‘safety’ I call ‘avoiding your feelings.’




An Instagram post of us enjoying a romantic sail on the Bay

only speaks of half the adventure:

you won’t put the grounding on Instagram,

will you? Coward.




We were in love once, in that giddy sort of way that doesn’t happen every day,

And for a moment last night, I saw a glimmer of it when the sun was about to set behind you as you grilled…

you said, Hunneee! (which I know means if you’re down below, get me a beer, please)

And as I reached into the cooler—and pushed the lunch meat, half-eaten pepper, sliced cheese, and eggs aside,

I smelled the head. I asked myself, Why can I smell the head from the galley but not the bed,

even though the contents of the head end up under the v-berth bed (I try not to think about that).

But there, in the moment, I did.

I poured myself some wine, and went back up to breathe in the evening air.