MARCH TO APRIL

March to April

you shoved off a few times,

the water parting smoothly

at the passage of the bow,

the stern a troubled wake.

By May, my house

drifts farther,

a snapped branch or newly budded bough,

one of us a marker

for the other’s loss.

Maybe it’s me who’s moored.

By the ear’s measure

I’ve been still for years.

On this island, a splintered branch hangs,

snatching you, then sweeps off with the current.

When I think of April, I see myself

submerged in green water

where something swims and glitters,

your flickering the dusk of my extinguishment,

water wounded.

June’s a wider ocean,

where I can love from the height of stars,

as the the smallest skiff enchants the moon,

never returning, forever

one hull on the water.