"The longing in our faces cannot end until both shores unite, yours and mine…" - Virgil Suàrez
However, I am between doctors, off the pill, and within the invention of the condom, lies the invention of the broken condom.
It might not be cool to think about Accidents and Origins on a cruise ship. “Titanic” under the breath on the deck, like “Macbeth” murmured in the wings. We verge always on crashing. It might be the gin, it might be the rough seas. It might just be me (engulfed in you).
It might not be cool to think at all on a cruise ship. A flock of maxi-dressed sorority swans float past. A pink tide rising, I come up gasping from our empty entanglement. These are cold girl glares. Silvery ghost women who died gossiping, demanding Death declare one of them the prettiest.
I begin to map your exposed profile. Why me, anyway? I am nothing. A spray of white noise in the night’s endless ink, A mouthful of seafoam spat off the stern. I am the lowest of poets with a patchy sunburn. I am slurring.
A gale catches my blouse in just this particular way, and for a moment, a mist of understanding wets my shoulders. Maybe I want me too.
Leaning across a rail, I think drowning this way might not be so bad. I give in, letting your wake fill mine. Amid the swell, from some inlet recess of me that I have not heard from before, on the underbelly of an echo, the false urgency of the gull’s squawk wails.
I’m not the kind of girl who’d dare ask Death about my looks. Even the finest lines on our maps remain unchanged, and I go to bed alone, abuzz. Later, you use the word “tease.”
The sea will ease, but my last meal will always churn, as I replay your tongue’s last scratch. Over and over. We verge always on crashing.