Some time after we split up the china,
after I moved away, I found
two honeymoon photos still stuck together.
The glossy paper ripped as I pried
the pictures apart, and there we were—
well, there you were in one, and me
in the other. We never thought
to hand our camera to a stranger.
I took that picture of you
in the cove they call Stingray City,
where a slowing boat’s propeller
calls a swarm of the silky slate creatures.
You’re forever frozen in swim trunks, your hands
flat on the wolf-sized ray, your lips
poised to plant a kiss
on her slick, thrashing wings.
The Caribbean’s milky green in the photo
of me. I’m sun-glassed,
bikini-clad, up to my white waist
in water. Laughing because
why wouldn’t I be, twisted as I am
away from the horizon, away
from the approaching hurricane,
the clouds black as Stingray City.
3 comments:
Poignant, as life can be. I really like the feel of this, remember those old photos stuck together and bikinis and not knowing then what the future really held...
Visually graphic and emotionally striking.
You're not usually so directly literal, and I like that about your work, but this has a wonderful simplicity. I'm a big fan of simplicity. Especially in something as froofy as poems.
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