We are such old
friends, one hundred
years equal between us,

standing on the edge
of the sea rocking weed.

My narrow feet
are barred brown by the sun
through my sandals,

the left foot slightly
longer than the right,

the right ear slightly
lower than the left

and a tiny barb
from a dentist's probe
broken off in my jaw.

I tell you these things
so you will recognise
the body.

You say you have passed
through the bleeding,
it has all stopped
for you and for a year

and we throw up our arms
and cheer and I say, well,
I might just start
a baby, jesus!

and we crack up
and fall about laughing
in the sucking swell,

more than half in love
the both of us,

with that big, fat woman
flapping her arms
in a floral tent dress

and especially
her strong, thick ankles.