you can hardly sail. Sailors call it "coasting."
Water the color of blue sunlight. White goatskin tents.
Brown hills. Sandy beaches. Flowers
doing a curious dance in the water.
Five boys swimming toward your boat, waving
armloads of purple and white bougainvillea—you imagining others
who have been welcomed (or unwelcomed) along this coast—
the Turkestani, the Gobie
out of Mongolia with horses on board.
The Corsicans. The Italians.
At the moment, however, are these boys climbing aboard,
dripping wet, wide-eyed. You offer towels,
seats in the cockpit, chocolate chip cookies.
You don't pretend to understand their language, just let words fly
back and forth all afternoon.
Gigek. Flower.
Tabak. Plate.
Kozluk. Glasses.
They give a test. You fail.
It's sunset when the boys swim back to shore,
the Mediterranean deepening blue to purple to black,
flames bursting on hillsides, families on holiday
passing down traditions and stories. Except tonight
the stories are about you, the teacher who
flunked the test. You in your bunk forming
words for no one in particular, words
silent, drifting across water.
