But How Could We Forget?
The sea arrives steeping in a white porcelain bowl.
Mussels, clams, cod. A Dungeness crab claw
emerges from the tomato stew as if to say “I’m here.”
But how could we forget? Summer evenings
the sun still high in the periwinkle sky as you rowed out.
I’d leaned over expectant as Christmas,
haul the crab pot up hand over hand
seaweed circling my wrists.
Your gloved hand digs into the skittering evergreen mass
knowing their weight and sex by touch.
This summer, we dropped your pot into the Sound on the highest tide.
Watched the buoy marked by your hand sink into the black.
I returned every day by kayak, stirring the sun off the water
to peer for your name lost amongst the kelp, your ashes.
We walk the pebbled shore; crackle clamshells as the fog hovers
obscuring Blake Island and the Olympics beyond.
The dog you will never know pockets crab claws in his jaw
buries them amongst the garden riot of zinnias, dahlias, and nasturtiums.
Previousely published by Windfall, Fall 2016