The harbor I loved
always smelled
of decaying fish &
freedom. And now,
coming to the end of things
it’s clear that sometimes
we get shown
early on, how to live —
then spend years
plotting charts,
scanning depths,
sailing away from it.
How else do I explain
sensing my own skin
for the first time,
not by touching it
or having it touched,
but by feeling its weight
pressing on what’s been
pulsing underneath
for so long — and so
soon after holding
your fragile hand
as you escaped the hook &
glided out of sight
with barely a ripple on the surface
to show us where you’d gone.
