He heard a loud thump as the boat
shook sideways and pushed down—
she was caught between  the tides,
drowning  in foam and tangled net
seaweed  curled  in  her  long  hair,
her mouth full of salt.  

His net  had  never  held  before  a
creature so destined for drowning—
lips like a petal of  a watered  rose,
skin the color  of  mist  just  before
the sun’s first light.

He touched  her  shoulder  and  the
ocean sighed—unsure what  to  do
he brought her home  in  his  arms,
wrapped her in linen too rough for
her flesh—set her down on his bed,
where  he  turned  down   the  dim
light of the oil lamps that flickered
against the  walls like  fish  darting
in a shallow cove.

For days,  she didn’t  speak—only
watched  him  with  her wide eyes
that had  only  known  dark  water,
and had forgotten how to close.

He sang to her  softly,  like  waves
curling  against the  shore—he fed
her the pinkest meat of the salmon,
washed her hair with  milk,  while
his palm rested  firm  on  her  ribs,
listening  for  something  that  had
gone quiet.

And when she stirred at last, it was
with a slow, liquid sound—her soft
fingers  trailing  over  his  wrist—a
tide returning.

She whispered something soft, like
cotton, her syllables thick and crisp
with ocean, something  he  did  not
understand—nor did  he  need  to—

He would follow her anywhere.

That night, she lay beside him, cool
against his  warm  side—though  he
closed his eyes, he felt her watching—
a  tide  of  something  wild  between
them, as enticing as the scent of  wet
stone.

Morning came—she was already gone.
The bed smelled of coarse salt, he put
his hands  to  his  lips  and  could  still
taste her.

Down by the shore, the waves rolled in,
welcoming her back—as the fisherman
stood at his window, staring beyond the
cove, saddened she could not stay.