Her home port is under construction,
candy-striped cranes and oxyacetylene
torches sparkling supernatural in the dark,
so the ferry must wait her turn
for a slip. She describes slow circles.
Lights slide listlessly by. A mother
and daughter in mutual orbit
on the dirty confetti linoleum tiles
of the passenger deck: The toddler turns
her head coquettishly, makes a mission
of tipping up the seats of all the folding
chairs, giggling. Coming and going. It is hard
to see at first that the mother is weeping.
The moon is full and cold. Tears
make their unassuming way down her face
and are slid aside with fingertips when the child
isn't looking. She turns circles.
