T.R. Poulson

Windsurfing Freestyle at Sherman Island


The way the wind takes the ebb like a lover
to build ramps for jumping on starboard tack,
where I can’t stop tumbling hard, cold. The others
fly, spin, plane away. I try until I make
an upwind three-sixty. Here, in the water
no other world exists. No mortgage circling
fast before a crash. It doesn’t matter
if the man I love loves me—purple ink

on notes and texts blown off. After the wind,
I peel away my wetsuit, bare thighs new
with bruise and fall. I falter flirting. Send
him a smile among the chatter (clew-
first grubbies, shove-its, forward loops). I feel
him toss me like those ramps. So raw. So pale.