Much like the pomegranate
you contain multitudes.
You laugh in morsels and
to love you is pyrrhic,
for in your hands is panacea
concinnated like pearls on a line.
You’re worth this night and each night —
with straight teeth
you tear apart the pulp of things.
A woman inheriting death
deserves first to taste life.
I now allow myself to write
those velvet throats, those waves of female form,
without discrediting the work
as politic instead of rather than also poetic.
I touch a woman and learn long dead languages, taste her breath and tides pull me under,
where the ocean names my atoms
reminds me all I’d know
if the Earth herself were my politics.
The swamp is my reliquary, and deep within, death and life and death sing across the waters.
She too carries this candor, her body equally unnavigable without submission. I’ve learned this:
How could I see the naked world
and wish it clothed? How could I breathe good air filtered over light years, bequeathed to me by the stars I count beside my lover,
and wish to bottle it? Nothing, not poetry, not politics, will spare me if I cannot spare her.
At night I worry about bringing home a wife, and a baby that’s not family but rather a loved one. What a thing to call a child, what a thing to say to a best friend. I miss our childhood. I miss belonging with you.
Even now, as my heart still beats, I can feel the molt begin. Pavement under my boots crumbles into sand. My nightly hot showers mock the sea. My skin may as well be scales, or shell. I taste only salt. I look at her and am scooped into a bucket to be poked and studied and emptied dead into a toilet. If only my memory would follow suit, so that trapped in this bowl all my life would be only the last two seconds. Instead I’m cursed with the recollection of the scent of her shampoo, the curve of her hip under my hand, her sleeping sighs. We were barely anything, and yet in that moment, she was my only way of being.
In a matter of hours all that passed between us was turned to ash, just fertilizer for the real love of her life. The look on her face said that’s all it ever was. And yet she seemed sad. If I were a crab I’d have no sorrows. If I were a crab, I would have scurried myself sideways out of her life and my shell would peel off slowly and each atom of my time with her could be discarded into the Gulf Stream. Instead, my heart and my skin are all too soft. I am exposed. Her eyes pierce into my veins and halt the flow of blood. I’d rather be upside down in a tank, playing dead until pipes shoot me into the world of my birth.
It’s time to go home. My mother will welcome me with enchiladas and vodka crans and I’ll fall asleep on her porch swing until the humid wind rattles the palmettos. I’ll watch the bats reel after Carolina mosquitos and finally – finally – my blood will begin again to circulate. How does one come to life again if they’ve never been dead?
Tomorrow I’ll wake to the ether and seek the color of her in the darkness. Buttery red, the flush of pale skin mid-laugh. Her essence will be my only guide back to the earth, where I will take the form of wind in Spanish moss. Where she goes I will go. What she feels I will feel. She falls in love each day with her chosen one, and I will occupy rejection as though trapped in the hull of a boat, listening to the music and dancing above me. I hope she makes her happy. I’d hate to float through their shared life if it becomes miserable. Although, perhaps I will be able to provide her some comfort in ways I couldn’t while alive. I will manipulate the sunlight to shine on her face, I will play leaves across her path, ensure the rain never chills her, the wind never scorches her cheeks or nose. One way or another, I will continue to love her.
I don’t believe in angels, but I’m certain ghosts fill the marshes with their breath, the crabs scatter at their feet, and the burdens they bear bend the reeds. If not with her, I will haunt the swamps. Maronage will be my eternity and I will play in the pluff mud with the snails and serpents, one with the decay and growth of those living things the heartless humans despise. I will climb the reeds with the periwinkles. I will tunnel with the ghost crabs. I will wade endlessly aside the great egrets and at last learn the secrets of silent splashing.
The marshes where my mother molded me will again become my home. At least I will be at peace if not loved. When invisibility doesn’t suit, I can cover myself with silt and raze the swamp as an apparition of dissolution. The creatures won’t mind, I will be one with them. My limbs will lengthen and split, my palms will curl inward into great claws, my skin will harden with salt, my eyes shrinking, my nose withering and falling off. I will claim the ghost crabs as my heirs, we will rule the underworld of the marshes and the tides will be ours alone. Somewhere, she will feel the rhythm of the moon shift, she will be called to the ocean, where she will feel the sands tremble, and I’ll be there beneath her feet.
The events of that night woke me to the world a new person. New, though, suggests an improvement upon the old and that’s certainly not the case. That night I became less than I was before, when I had the hope of her.
I realized upon waking, that if I were to die this moment, all of my eternity would be occupied solely in finding her again – or pieces of her – in the remaining world. I’d haunt her. I’d follow her wife and their children until they too died, and then I would haunt their empty home as if to glean what happiness they had together, of which I know I’ll never be a part.
I stew in the inevitability of decline from this day forward. She is done with me, but each time I see her I am reminded of life she brought into me, of the soft kisses, the broken embraces, the apologies spoken but unintended. I am encumbered with the weight of her indifference. It pins me down and it feels as if the face of reality has slipped away and revealed the mask beneath. The dream has ended and the nightmare has begun…