Waking the way wind wakes the surface of mottled stone,
I feel the rust, and grate of something
beneath my tongue.
Back there it’s broken, where my teeth meet, where my smile starts.
I’ll remember your murder song this first time;
that the salt howled into my wound tonight as
I clung to a cavern wall, looking at the toil, dread ocean;
that I watched you row away with your oars just so in the water:
A man who makes up his mind.
But others didn’t listen; dolphins came to me
when you went. I swam and was still standing
when morning found the shore.
Perhaps I swallowed sand. My tongue finds now the gap
where your hinges were, where we hung on tight.
I ask you to remember, because someday when I’m strong
and you’re nobody, clinging for life on your crag of justice,
I want you to recall: I would have offered my hand.
I would have offered you forever.
But you will stand alone; no one will save you.
Grace by morning? Not her-
She remembers who the children are,
and who the gatesman, with his gory step.
I would have followed you to ordained disaster
and lent my boat to sink, if you wanted to.
But I live, and you will die every night you recall this night:
The sound of my blood rushing out, your fury;
the cold and calculating way that you went.
No, they won’t come for you.
The night will plunge, reel, echo thunder-
Perhaps you’ll swallow sand.