You, Now That It Is Safe
The logistics are easier now. Me with you,
now that it is safe and no adjustment necessary
like converting to Catholicism after menopause
or wearing white pleated skirts ditto.
Your eyes are shut and I am the only one left
who knows what colour they are.
The magic sounds you call me with
are molecules of soul and bits of my skin,
not quotidians to be navigated yet again
on two overworked tightropes
stretching to infinity. In the space between
we float, weightless, holding hands
the Friday candles burn, joyful and steady.
We wade, slow as winter thought,
through seaweeds, hauling out each
double twist hand over hand
from this place, into our time.
Low tide exposes holdfasts.
If the wind keeps its course
we will win. Otherwise, the
stipes fight back, desperate to stay
attached. The harder we twist
the colder the knot. Sweat-soaked
air drips salt, sucks the voltage
up to the edge of lethal—
in our space, you would have died.
Here, instead, we stop and taste
sharp ozone, metallic as blood,
as summer as blackberries.