The captain cut the motor eight miles off the coast of Key Largo, and in the curious new silence, our boat sloshed to a halt. We had an hour to spare before the next thunderstorm.
I grabbed hold of the railing and peered into the deep - the water was blue like Christmas lights. Parrotfish and sea cucumbers stared back; deeper still, a nub of coral shriveled up for dead.
After dark 'round these parts, helicopters dump sacks into speedboats while Haitians nod in prayer. Farther out, pirates unload chests of Mr. T. necklaces, which sound in the night like jingling change.
Here too, out in the open sea, I let go
(So long poor, dirty old hurt)
Realizing it was over was a sad relief
And the quiet that followed as raw as birth
