The Dead

/ /

The dead lie under a sea that sparkles at sunrise, and the dead rise up in spray, wind-tossed, that pricks our cheeks and loosens tears.

At flood tide, the dead cluster in a moat that fills dry flats, encompassing our island, carrying wood chips, stuttering questions.

Shards of bone mix with bright sand to gleam in a wineglass, scrub a brass doorknob, rush through the midriff of an hourglass, pleading

for more time. The dead swim in fish gut, pock the shore with stones. murmur in tides. Indifferent to us readers of the waves,

they pool in shallows, unmoved by the storm, the swell, the thump, the chaos of white water. And you, my love, your ashes scattered here,

are never gone. I ride the waves with you. But for a heartbeat, we are the same.