I.
This is the quiet section so we whisper as we sort—
my pile has 50 poems. Yours, 30. With a red pen,
you slash through entire stanzas, draw arrows—
move this here, move that there. You say the last line
must bait the hook for the next. Each piece must
be tethered by the invisible push and pull
of the current. This table, floating in the corner,
with a view of the parking lot, now spins,
caught in a whirlpool. I get seasick easily,
but you, chewing on a pen cap, shuffling
manila folders, do not seem to mind the spray
of the water, the carousel of silver sharks,
the dented eel that slithers in my lap,
the shaky hand I use to take notes.
II.
It seemed like a good idea all those years ago,
to salvage our lost letters, poems, and emails
to construct a lifeboat. All that wasted
emotion and time put to use—to make
something to pass the hours, something
to busy our minds, something
so lopsided and ugly that it would
never carry its passengers to shore.
The anchor latched to my broken ankle
guarantees I’ll be pulled under
and you, forever captain, former martyr,
the hero hidden in every book,
are destined for the lighthouse.
Just a little farther.
III.
On my laptop, I create a Google drive—
organization will be so much easier.
We cut and paste and insert a new page break,
but the words smear the screen, my backspace
button gets stuck with seaweed. You
insist we work on paper. Forget
the computer, the cloud that holds
the secret of what happened to the sailor
who didn’t drown, didn’t abandon
ship, didn’t kiss my mouth and then spit
seashells in my face. His siren call
keeps the rain away, plugs the holes,
and I believe I can hold my breath
for as long as it takes.
