He always looks out
to sea –
the subtle drift, the swirling current,
the burst of spray against rocks
that’s like anger exploding.
I stand, hands on hips grown larger
with the miracle inside, waiting
for him to turn towards me,
to see the subtle drift
in my eyes,
to feel the swirling current
of my heart, and the burst of anger
that causes my hand to sometimes
tremor, if only just slightly.
But he does not turn.
Instead, I feel him free himself
from me like a boat that’s loosed itself
from its moorings and breaks
upon the sunlit waves
of a sea I cannot fathom.
And as he turns from me,
I turn from him,
to the gilt-edged windows
and the sad elegance of the dome
of the Beaux-Arts building opposite.
The curtains float up like hands
and in one room there is movement.
It is so brief, I am not sure
of what it is
until I look again, but this time
with a steadiness that hurts my eyes.
And then I see what was only motion
a moment ago – the young man’s hand
catching the light,
reaching for a face that is too far
in shadow for me to see.
But this much I can tell:
he looks at that face as my husband has never
looked at me,
and I surrender to that young man’s hand
and drift and drift away.