How to Drown

By | 1 December 2013

As we fought for the third day, about
something I no longer recall, your voice
turned to water, to a sound I had
never heard, wet and hard and
cold, water from the bursting gut
of a cloud, water from where the air is thin
and icy. I remember your body, laid on the sheets
scented and warm, like a loaf cooling in my hands,
and how at that moment I bent to taste the stew
and how its breath caressed my stunned cheek
like the breath from your body, your mouth:
how I had slowly discovered you
your breasts, your stomach, your thighs,
lying in my bed, night after night
until your disparate continents
joined suddenly into an earth. And so
in that heated kitchen I cooked and pushed out
further and further, rising from the warm surface of the earth
into the chill grain of a sepia world thick
with clouds, rising unheeding until the kitchen became
obscure and I could no longer see
your eyes, your cheeks, your long silver hair, I heard only
the sound of your voice cleaving, turning to black
water. And in that warm kitchen, on the third day
you made yourself into an earth
I could no longer know.

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