‘You brace yourself against the oncoming. But today the sea glistens like the fish you used to scale.’
January 12, 2016
All year long winter threatens the eggs. For the heatless
bird I’m drawn to I fatten up against the wind. As the
bus halts, a stranger says, If I don’t see you tomorrow,
that’s because I’ve jumped off a bridge. I don’t need that
kind of burden, the man I loved once said. Then I do see
him tomorrow. And the stranger tomorrow too.
Though he prefers the lake’s postcard to the sea’s
triptych, he steers the boat into the wave. Acknowledge
me, he asks as he loosens the ropes. You brace yourself
against the oncoming. But today the sea glistens like the
fish you used to scale. The boat slices and bucks, your
stomach compressing. You remember the horrible bed
holding you both, how in it you lied for days.