South Shore Harbor
// Beau Boudreaux
Waves lick the long shore
bobbing skiffs moored in the marina
raise their sails like flaps
of envelopes waiting for their messages
as if cold, or sick with fever
her voice shook when I touched her arm
her tipped globe of Bordeaux
waving around my face a violet perfume
when I looked her in the eye
she turned away to address the commodore.