by Maureen Seaton
I parted my own sea and you came to me: sort of unscripted, sort of splendid.
A loose bolt in the imagination—the very one that got me in trouble sipping
lilac wine (stolen from you five minutes ago). Remember? You were breaking
in your ukulele. All those tiny hand movements. I glued myself into a collage
and you flew. There was something old school about us. Or scientifically
unsound. We made faces at Czars. My eyes were browning then, and yours
were shaped like starfish. You never know who you’ll run into as you sweep
the sea with a slender stalk. I’ve carried my life inside me for so long now,
never knowing where it would take me, so irretrievable, so stark raving mine.