Shadow Child

I listen for the shadow child
silent in your smile
hiding there the way you did
that morning on the boat
between the Island and the town
no longer part of one
not quite part of the other
ducking buoys and rocks
listening to the gulls.

You said they laughed at you,
said you shouldn't have been born.
"Mothers and gulls are like that."
and then you turned away.
Was it the shadows or the wind
that washed over your eye
like the water against the bow,
not quite cut -- not quite there?

Her engines whined against the bay
and the old woman,
the one with treasures hidden
in great shopping bags tethered in tow,
perched upon the bench
against the far side of the lower deck,
like some dazed gull resting from the rain,
her knees bulging above the great roll
of stockings and skirts,
weathered and muddy from the streets.

The voice groaned again
not quite the engine -- not quite the sea
"Good girls sit with their knees together."
The shadow looked away
as the old woman fished deep into her bags
for small bits of stale bread
for the gulls outside.

The man said to his son
“The damn gulls'll eat anything --
french fries, bottle caps”
He tossed his Camel over the rail
and the one gull, the fat gull,
plucked it from the air,
hawked it down and spit fire
and you heard the laughter,
first the father, then the gull --
"Shouldn't have been born."

Last night you talked about your brother
not quite a man -- but not a boy --
and his stubble peach fuzz beard
that won't lie for him,
telling stories that were different
than riding the boat from the Island
"He doesn't know about the gulls,"
you said. "He doesn't hear the laughter."

It was then I saw the child, quiet
and smiling in the shadows.