He says, You’re broken bones and sheet-glass, drifting with the tides. The jellyfish sleep in your ribs at night, and congeal against your sides. You ask for quarter, you speak in signs; you shield distemper, you rape your minds. You ask for snap-joint wings to stay; you throw them down, you join the fray. What angel is this?
I say, a formless body in the foam and surf, This angel is Woman. This angel is Man.
He winds the beads around his fingers, up to his knees in salt-water, wearing a net like Daedalus’s wings around his shoulders. He waits for a starfish to wind between his toes, waits for the barnacles on his shins to put out their feathery tongues, and then he grows tired of waiting, and asks, Are you ever coming home?
Crescents flash, farther in, farther out, and the jellyfish disperse, running with the waves or waiting, helplessly, onshore. The dark is growing dimmer, and he looks to the west, where the salt and sky meet. I am laughing; I am sinking. I have already