Because I have a large spleen
and can hold my breath
but am traumatized enough
to keep my head swiveling,
I ask Nani, an island child like me,
What’s the most landlocked
state you can live in?
as if being inland and diving
are equal amounts of claustrophobia.
She asks “Is there a lake?
Can I follow a river?”
I say yes.
“Then Pennsylvania,”
she says. “Two hours
from New York
and touching a great lake.
You?” As an American child,
I have no feel for geography
and say “In for a penny,
in for a Pitt or a Phil.”
We laugh as we pull up
on our house, uphill
from the sea. The air,
when marine-thick and tide
low, smells like salt, decay,
and promise. This is home,
but our blood says to make
the stilts strong and tall
for when the tide changes
and the ocean returns.