We toasted to love on a houseboat,
your hair spiraled tightly by the salt air
—its wildness showing, extending like
your arms to hold your children, my
children (all of them ours, really), and
this new, small soul we’ve made.
You are a tree. No, you are the bear
knifing its claws into that tree. Or rather,
the sky above it —blue into blue into blue.
And what is it about women and water?
So in love with the ocean
that you’re sure to die beside it.
And yes, there will be a last time
that we see each other. Though, I
admit, I don’t believe that. Sure, a star
dies — blowing itself apart. But where
does the star stuff go? I know you get
it.
To be admired is to be observed,
and shit, that’s a lot of pressure.
Sometimes, you must have felt
like an acrobat, tumbling. No net,
no soft place in sight.
But the crowd was mistaken.
You weren’t falling. You dove.
And on the floor of some ocean, you sat,
regarded a sunken city no one else could
see. Waiting, like Noah, for the water to
recede. Or barring that, some diver to brave
the depth, to meet you at the bottom.