The Shape of Water

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I have a book of poems
written in cursive,
not in a pretty way
like the letters I have from my Aunt,
or Grandmother.
The marks are utilitarian, but each
word is carefully chosen,
picked out of scribbled lines
on scraps of paper
lining my desktop
and floor,
the only evidence my effort affords
recollections from before.
I stack rocks on a beach
touched by shallow ripples of gray-blue.
A seal pokes his head out from under the water—
a drive-by spectator
offering a curious nod
before diving back underneath
in search of his next meal.
My one and only audience didn't wait
to hear if my words were clear
or provided comfort,
allowing hearts to beat together
one more time
with each passing wave.
Instead, he chases fish,
and I watch each word float
toward the momentarily disturbed surface.
Memories slowly sinking to meet him in another life.
I stand, no longer wanting to obstruct
the loss of language, the wave of grief,
of relief surging with each
toppled stone, once carefully placed.
The book, the pages, the poems,
belong now to the sea. The monster
living in the deep.
I watch,
I wait,
on the shore, no longer alone.
Seagulls argue nearby,
impatient in their waiting, too.
Lines of blue-green stretch and curl
across a canvas, sodden, besotted,
forming letters lyrically shaped.
I remember.
I allow the surge.
Let the cold rivulets of water
collide at my feet.