San Destin, Florida

It’s a beach scene: the sand scabbed with pinwheel
            umbrellas, people, littered towels. I’m parasailing

three hundred feet behind a neon yellow boat just
            offshore. From above, a shadow looks just like you

standing up. But I’m too far away to tell. Your
            could-be shadow isn’t moving because I’m moving,

which throws everything else off-kilter. I want
            it to be you, know that one of them has to be yours,—

the place on the shore I had tried earlier to mentally peg
            so I wouldn’t forget: here is where she is and will be,

when you pass don’t forget to wave. But that was then,
            and I am up here now. There’s a rope tethered to the harness

around my waist, yellow ratchet straps pulled tight,
            tied off. I’ve got thirty minutes up here, that’s all I paid

for, and I’ve already wasted ten of them trying to
            decide which shadow is your shadow. I should be

enjoying the view: the snow the boat cuts into the surf,
            the green water lapping up the shoreline, the movement

of the ocean so slow its surface could pass for
            wrinkled skin. I only have fifteen minutes left.

I have my hands around a bundle of ropes that lead
            like nerves up to the wings. I want to call out to the you

that isn’t you down below. I have your name
            in my mouth but don’t know what to do with it.