The Big Wave

     . . . bulged far out in the dark Sound,
                    a great rolling gut, bottle green,
          lip in jut. It leaned beachward,
full tilt, like mean cartoon men,
          barrel-chested, out for blood.
                    Our gentle waters, sheltered
          from Atlantic’s bulbous swirl,
some seismic gulp has muddled up!
           My mother, squinting eastward,
                    sees the peril first. Firm
          on the pier, she points, claps,
pulls the buoyant children out.
          On that pier beside her,
                  I dip my hand in hers.
          The tide’s in chops:
the wave nears, nears.
          I feel her fear—
                    I always feel her fear—
          but watch the coming wave and notice
depth and width and might
          in a form pleasantly plump.
                    It rolls in under my feet:
          I extract my hand and jump.

                    A salt second later, I bubble up.
     Eyes filmy, lungs choked up,
 I bob and sputter, swim pierward,
          clamber up, out, into mother’s towel.
                    I search her face for a verdict—
          what have I done?—
but can’t read the wet eyes, the bit lip.
           I look away, get nervous, shiver, giggle.
                    The inkling comes:
          Faced with “safe” and “separate”
I took the gamble.
          Down the pier, into tomorrow,
                    I scramble!