One night we anchored the boat
in the lee of a forested island.
There was a steady breeze
and waves lapped at us all night
gently pushing us here and there
like the unconscious motion of a tail.
The waves were visible by their edges
in the moonlight, silver bows unstrung.
The boat brushed up against the air
and we prayed not to break through,
lying drifting on the river.

I climbed up on the roof to watch the glow
where the sun went slowly sinking.
It was the world turning, bringing
water with it, rolling up to drown the sky.
And we were on its back, as if Jonah
had hidden from the great fish on itself,
out of sight behind its eye.
I called Lyera on my father’s phone
to hear her voice, her silver voice.
The stars impossibly were far away.

They were so far that later I could hardly pray
on my back, being rocked like a child,
gazing up out the window. A God who’s close
cannot be seen, just felt. But he was here,
in the river, like a dog made huge,
liable to lap us up at any moment.
Anchored, it didn’t feel to me the risk was
that we’d drift away, but that we’d be dragged down.
It felt like nobody would know except the waves.