I saw you slip off your dress in the dead of night,
saw the moonlight reach through the cracks of the window
to touch your skin. You peeled back the curtain and lifted the pane
to swim through the thick Louisiana air, so I followed and
climbed barefoot up a twisted tree  
and watched you melt into the bayou.

You were no longer undressed but adorned in foam.
The wind asked you to be its wife and
you nodded, solemn as the grave
and closed your eyes and let him take you.

My bones shivered into the branches as I watched
the water fall still and silent and black,
watched it take its last breath,
a corpse for the crocodiles,
watched the moon disappear like it
was never even there.