Rupture

city girl island girl
i wandered and found
my grimy way to the Hudson
for the smell of something salty
enough

and told my mother the day
i dared touch the water
to which she responded
with nothing more 
than lávate la´ mano´ 
but why
would i wash myself 
of my only luxury 
a body
that put us at one edge
of the city and made the sun-
set shine orange straight down
my block before the hospital
mounted a building at the end
of our street for its own
precious view 
so i climb fences
drive long distances 
and trade my lunch money
to sit on sand
i remember

now as i sit on the coast
where we paid enough 
to hear the ocean
through our windows where
we can walk to the water
where my husband lifts
our toddler above each wave as
she squeals where our baby eats
too much sand this time so
i reach for her and again i hear
our toddler squeal so i look—
an old ship
a coast in my skin 
but not my memory
i look back to the land—
more green, the endless
rows of white houses vanished
possibility unslaves us all

i need more swim 
our toddler says
yes. more swim
like there is a place waiting
like being everywhere at once

i always go back to the water
see more and
break