There were things we held on to
and things we let go. There was a push
and a pull and a lag in between, a pounding
and the dry rales of bounding pebbles.
The tide was tender
as she stripped us
of all the things
we’d been too pragmatic to say,
those tentative hopes we’d withheld,
fleeting possibilities catching our attention,
countless flashes of silver,
a flickering school of fish mid-vortex.
How many we’d wanted to catch,
give words to.
At the Mouth of the River
I will come to you
when we have both run out
when language is exhausted
and we have learned to love
when there is nothing more to do
but bridge the silence
and begin to build