Low tide showed the path through the coral in the sand
She carried cloves in a cracked blue tin
Sawa sawa, she said, and offered me her hand
Said eat before the ocean comes walking in
The Rock sat white above the morning swell
Like a table set where a boat should be
Said the ocean runs its own hotel
Said it knows the schedule better than me
She said every man who comes here thinks he's planned
His own departure — on his own terms, his own time
Said the tide has never understood that stand
Says sawa sawa — and takes back what was mine
The tide takes reservations, names, and shoes
Turns your table to an island in the foam
I watched her lantern crossing all the blues
Some goodbyes row themselves home
Her name was Asha — widow since the rains
Said her husband took a dhow past Chwaka Bay
Said the ocean kept him three whole tides in chains
Then gave him back quiet with the morning gray
She laughed with one hand over her glass
Like grief was rude if you let it begin
I tried something kind — she let it pass
Said eat your fish before the sea comes in
She knew the table would be water-locked by nine
Had packed the cloves before the path had started filling in
Said the ocean and I — we have an understanding fine
Said pole pole — the sea knows what it's given
The ladder knocked soft on the restaurant wall
First little waves came in beneath the floor
She watched the water cover the coral path and all
Said she'd seen men learn this before
The tide takes reservations, names, and shoes
Turns your table to an island in the foam
I watched her lantern crossing all the blues
Some goodbyes row themselves home
By sunset the sand road was gone below
Just a silver crease where the reef had been
Asha tapped her ash in a bottle cap — slow
Said "Men always call it leaving. I've seen."
She packed the last of it and said don't wait
The boat came when she gave a certain call
Said kwaheri — soft — and didn't hesitate
Said the tide knows what it's given — that is all
The tide takes reservations, names, and shoes
Turns your table to an island in the foam
I watched her lantern crossing all the blues
Some goodbyes row themselves home
The boatman came when the plates were cleared
Bare feet wet, rope between his teeth
Asha paid from a matchbook she'd prepared
Said nothing — just stepped over what was beneath
I watched her lantern getting small on the foam
Someone in the boat was rowing at the stern
The Rock sat white above its Indian home
And I had salt on my cuffs and no answer to earn