At the edge of the yard,
a blue tarp flutters
like a trapped lung.

Beneath it, the hull
of a boat half-built,
its ribs pale as driftwood.

My father sands cedar planks,
resin clotting amber
on his fingertips.

He never speaks
of the island he left—
just corrects my hammer grip,

says: Measure twice.
Wood remembers
every mistake.

Tide pushes salt breath
through the pines.

Across the road,
a field waits to be claimed
for a data center.

Overnight, survey flags
bloom pink and trembling
in the marsh grass.

I smell iron, river mud,
a trace of diesel
in the wind.

A wren whistles
from the hollow stem
of a cattail.

My father turns the hull
toward the inlet,
eyes narrowing at the river’s pull.

Something in me
tightens, wanting to ask
what happens if the water

forgets the shape
of a boat—
as if it were never built.