How Would it Work

How would it work,

exactly? Me meeting you again.

Would we swim to an island?

Pick one, far from me

and close to you.

I’ll leave now.

I’ll think of things on the way.

Your eyes, the friend I had.

Those things I brought you

that you’d never heard of

and that I can’t bring again.

I’ll write this all along.

All along the way back.

Those nautical miles.

Sea-water swallowed by the gallon.

Sargasso torn through

and tossed aside.

That’s how it would have to work.

You, dear, you travel

light. Don’t bring me

the things you never brought me,

that I’ll never hear of.

You pick an island,

far from me

and close to you.

I’ll have to hope

the hawksbills I used to love,

the ones that used to love me, too,

and guide me, aren’t

resting at bottom

choked with plastic

and wrapped in net.

Pick an island, far from me

and close to you.

I’ll chance the crossing

without friends

to meet you again.

November 6, 2019