Phosphorescents

On Cape Cod in late August, the phosphorescents came. 

In the chill night air, swaddled in sweatshirts, we waded 

into the water and pushed the rowboat out from shore,

the phosphorescents billowing out, shimmering,

as our legs moved through the water. As we rowed, they

glimmered from each dunk, each rise of the oars, 

each soft slap. We were children. They were the annual

miracle, the last thrill of summer: tiny stars. 

Later I learned they are some sort of marine microorganism, 

absorbing light and letting it out when stirred. 

And later I learned a lot of things: Men are not kind. 

A job is hard to keep. You can’t live on unemployment. 

Eventually, you can’t have children. 

Late in life I met my husband—my thrill, 

my miracle. I volunteer at a Day Care Center 

where the wild love of small children surrounds me. 

I care for my aging father who still releases the light 

he absorbed during a lifetime. And the poems

billow from me like phosphorescents.