Beth Kendall

During the night in the beachfront room,
the air is thick as if under water.
Across the harbour a ferry heaves into the port
and smashes its anchor into the black skin of sea.
You open the door and windows
and lie outside on the roof,
while I try to sleep in the small bedroom,
feeling your stillness penetrating the air,
listening to crickets in the heat.
In minutes you draw me out with a sigh,
and I stumble into your lap, drowsy fingers
tracing the white of your skin.
The sky is cloudless and unmoving.
Your breaths in my ear come as slowly as
morning takes to wash over the ocean.