I.
I hold my husband in plastic bags.
He’s whispering like a soft, worn thing,
dropp me here, dropp me gently.

Everything is terribly light — incense,
Ash, the thinness of his voice falling
Into waves, disappearing.

II.

The sea picks up my life,
Empties it across itself.
I see it spilling over, dissolving.
Here are the forgotten parts —
A pink night sky, broken bangles,
A fisherman walking away from the light.

There you are, held up with wind and sails.
If you would turn, you would hear me say,
Come back, my arms ache from all the carrying.
Underneath, you’re lost in a place
Where everything is scraped together
And nothing is thrown back.

You sink. Colours dissolve.
You move hair from your forehead,
Salt from your eyes. You’re left with greys —
Calling out to me, bubbles
Instead of words. It is a silent death:
One I feel before it happens.

III.

Was there a child then? The child I could not have?
With hair that shakes and shines as though a sun
Were gleaming under her roots. I want to stroke her.

Lean over and touch her. Come here, let me hold you.
I want only daughters — a thick rope of black
Around her neck. She calls; the beginning of your name.

If I were really a mother, I would do it quick
And painless, out of love. Take the hair —
Twist, yank, drop; tilt her over like a bag of sand.

It would be done then. There would be less
To clean up. She will never be like me.
The death of her child will kill her.

IV.

If you must collect pictures, take them
When I’m looking away. Here’s a beach again —
The nets spread on the sand drying,
A fish in the corner slapping its tail.

Nothing matters then,
We’ll meet when we’re warm and dry.
Take this picture — my shoulders, the bone,
The shine, the criss-cross of white straps.

V.

I’m eight-years-old, running into the sea.
Run in, my mother says, Go on then like a naked girl.
Nobody cares, nobody’s watching.

The sea pulls me in around the ankles,
Grabs the sand from underneath, shows me
A glimpse of my life, what it will be like later.

It was all calm once, long ago, a teardropp
Between apartment buildings. But here in my life;
Hiss hiss. This one is no good.

This one doesn’t love you.
This one doesn’t know what you need.
Leave, let go, stop.

The frothy fingers at my throat,
The voice pouring into me,
A terrace of vanishing blue.

You will leave this one.
You will leave this place.
For a while you will know nothing.