Warm Water
Until the stingray glided
past our legs
we were lost in our own skin,
the seawater
a salve for everything
that was in the past,
exchanging our fears
for champagne and a trip
into the Sun.
From the shore
the islanders
fought amongst themselves
to bask in our radiance
and pray for absolution
of their meaningless lives.
There was a couple
from Maine
in the water,
a few feet away,
playing the games that
twenty years of short memories play,
and as we watched
I pasted our faces
onto their bodies,
felt their years in my bones,
but when I looked to her
all she saw
was the glue drying out
and our faces
falling onto the surface. She
turned and swam
in the other direction.
Even in the dark
under a pride of cat’s eyes stars,
the water was warm
on our skin,
lapping around our ankles
while the sand
attempted to pull us under
into its world.
I connected the stars
with my eyes,
cut out the pattern
and pressed it into
the palm of her hand
where it danced and shone
like the spire of Babel.
She stared at it
for a long time,
hovering between crying
and screaming,
before letting it
drop into the water
and drift away.