Down by the river bank I see
a life-ring on a line,
and think of how we used to swim
in talk, your hands in mine,
our arms encircled round your wound,
that never-ending need.
Your life was so unfairly hard,
you felt, and I agreed.
So when low words rose from your depths
and surged up spitting froth,
I let them pass. I held the line.
‘We’ll surf these waves’, I thought.
And so we went till my cross came,
a knife to cut me free
commanding me to cast away,
insisting that I see.
It showed the ring my thought had made
was twisted as old bone,
that we were not four hands conjoined.
I clutched, alone, my own.
Down by the river bank I weep
for how we went off course:
those harsh, embittered words you said
the love they slapped to loss.
And my warped need to drop too deep,
the blood and breath I gave
to trying to buoy up a life
that was not mine to save.