When Daniel swam out towards the island,
the children and I saw it happen,
the family safe on shore, oblivious
to the riptides that pull
shells, weeds, flounder, and men down.

We could not believe the ocean claimed him.
He had romanced her,
witholding for once
his scorn for things too vast.

Today, I leave this coastline,
its cliff-faces and inlets.
I walk on the beach,
and then I walk into the water
up to my ankles, knees, waist,
up to my neck before I let the sea take me.

I swim,
I grow fins,
lose my arms and legs,
gills supplant my lungs,
and my face flattens 'til I'm fisheyed.

I am a citizen of the sea,
come to sue for my loss.
I swim like a mad maiden,
I swim,
then I dive below, dear Daniel.

I am reminded again: I envy women.
I watch when they go so readily
behind the mind's eye
to where consciousness sleeps and wakes,
and down to the throat
where human suffering constricts the breath.

They go so readily there, the women,
to the wounds and danger,
their tears an alchemy
in which the rage that turns on itself
and eats the soul
is given over to grief, a new alloy.

On a man's tongue, this grief is new,
for he is late, newly arrived
to face the mother and hear the music,
to find what lies between an impulse and a thought.