I find comfort in the rhythm
of the tide’s twice-daily cycle,
covering, then revealing
over ten feet of snails and seaweed,
slippery rock. This long, slow breath
a constant reminder of the moon’s
pull, that no transition occurs
in pure isolation. It’s easier
to carry my kayak to the water
when the tide is high. I cinch tight
my life vest before I launch.
The snug hold around my chest
reminds me of binding: the ache
of my back, my tight breath.
I wound muslin over and over
your breasts, tried ACE bandages,
duct tape, compression binders,
learned how to hide your body
so I might be seen. I turned
away from you—
I had to.