And When We Return, We are Water
I am ashamed
to admit how my fingers
swell. My ring
too tight to wear.
The lake filled
with enough
jeweled pollen
and eyes of fish
who keep a light on
and remind me
to wear my watch.
I tell my husband
too much, I can’t
keep a secret.
I am afraid of water
and wind.
My love is
a swallow who
dips a wing between
the slick edge of water
and sky. The left hand
in holy water
instead of the right,
a song
I teach my cousins.
Once, I held them
barely above the water.
Their little claws
scratched when they splashed
and shook. Don’t let go,
but I do.
Figurehead
I misunderstood.
The first woman sailor I met
had one eye and a husband
who called her Happy.
She hated it.
Ears plugged, blood
hums from the shell;
I am hearing myself
recite the names of Mercury
astronauts because women
on boats are bad luck.
I didn’t say excuse me to the tiller
I shouldn’t be,
the way a fish doesn’t care
when he touches me.
My leg, fishnet and hawk—
holding myself
underwater doesn’t have the desired effect.
I wait to grow gills and rise. I wouldn’t survive
one kiss on each cheek.
Bueno. Bueno. Bring me a bird
as unloveable as a seagull.
My husband doesn’t like
when I wear lipstick.
I guess what they say is true,
breakfast before
worm, and hook.
Last night I dreamt
I didn’t comb my hair
or let my food digest. I can
forget on my own—
the shadow overhead
and overheard.
I am underwater
before and during
the time it takes
to make a bird
a boat, and call
them both women.
Header photo by Jiri Fejkl, courtesy Shutterstock.