You and your best friend, Johnny, will roll
ahead of me down the bouldered
slope on the rough beach, before
the starfish began
to disappear; before open
sores boil on their bright arms
cause them to crumble. Skull
Island’s jagged shoreline
like skin of a wet elephant is flint
grey and shining, my graying hair
long and red-blonde again. You believe
you understand the sassy bald
eagle orating above us, name
him In Between Worlds. Sea star
wasting disease is rapid, within three days
their arms break
and disintegrate to a flimsy mush, warming
seas a possible
cause, or a virus. Perhaps oxygen
depletion. For you, son, a changing
diagnosis like a dancefloor
strobe. It’s bi-polar; no, it’s anxiety, underlying
Asperger’s, definitely on the spectrum. Try
Zanex, Prozac, Depakote. Son,
when you recover, no more night
terrors. Emergency
room interventions gone, the adults who broke
your heart apologize, every
one. On this rocky beach the summer
is generous and safe—when the sky
softens to dark cinnamon we’ll rumble
home up the mountain; you’ll wiggle
into your Spiderman pjs, and your buddy
Johnny will spend the night. You’ll recite
your favorite creatures: periwinkle, barnacle, giant
octopus, squid. Mommy, are they
called sea stars or starfish?
you ask, nodding off to sleep. Both and even
more—brittle
star, echinoderm, la estrella
de mar, basket
star, I answer, as I tuck
you in with your tattered
stuffed dolphin.  I kiss
your forehead, once
for this one splendid
day, twice for all the stars
in sea and sky.