Across the Sea

The day dawn is breaking,
the moon and stars are fading.
The cool water shimmers,
and I am but a glimmer
who floats with the flow.
I am not numb,
yet I feel no pain.

I have the vision of an eagle,
the hearing of an owl,
the smell of a bloodhound,
the taste buds of a child.
I am experiencing everything wonderful
all at once,
and I’ve only been out at sea for two days.

The morning ripens into afternoon,
the afternoon deepens into twilight,
and then the evening turns purple then black,
like a bruise.
The earth is dying once more,
only to be reborn with the coming sun.

I think of my husband,
then my child—
who was carried out like me,
many years ago now.
Never forgotten,
never found.

The coastline of Maine is becoming nearer,
I am so close.

It is the third day.

I see my husband standing on the sandbar,
looking neither near nor far.
“If ever I am lost,
I will find my way back to you,” I had said,
but he hadn’t believed me,
or so I had thought.

The tide carries me,
and I splash around his ankles,
for I am but ashes.

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