Watching The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, I think of my father.

Iris A. Law


In the theater, I am seized by the roar of water.
Shells and rough silica scrape at the catacombs of my ears,
bathe them in blue oscillations. I imagine you striding
toward that wave as if running against a glass wall: arms
at full wingspan, the water rearing violently before you,
its salt smell, of bream-scales and ice. How the wind
must have crashed through the ladder of your bones.
How the waves must have lashed at your temples. How,
at the moment of crossing, all must have seemed
white and welling, the sea entering into you—
breathing, lapping, till the light on the other side
beat hard against your forehead, azure and thrumming,
its warm vibrato blocking out everything but itself.