I'm Used to Feeling Like I'm Moving Even When I'm Still

In the ferry's dim-lit belly we sit in seats our liveshave recently assigned: father driver, mother passenger.

Behind us, soothed by the boat's loud drone, the babyfinally sleeps. Yellow fluorescents stripe the hood, the dash,

our laps. We squint to get a glimpse of what's ahead; seaspray on the windshield settles into salt. A bit of home—

damp waft of rumpled sheets—drifts in. Then fades.Lately my body's felt docked, as in: all aboard.

When he leans toward me, the boat's black ramp startsgrinding down. Mothers pull their children from the rails.