Poetry

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Sometimes I imagine that he has wings,
gray with the lingering softness of clouds,
and glistening like diamonds.
Sometimes I'm on top of the dark, murky water
with an outstretched arm,
fingers interlaced with his cold, slippery ones.
I struggle with all my effort
to maintain balance, control, composure.
His trust is waivering, his resolutions slim.
He wants to let go sometimes,
his green eyes turn gray - as gray as the water.
I see water in his eyes,
and I know what causes those drops.
Intimate life, intimate hearts share these things,
the only warm thing in our midst at this one moment.
From underneath the glassy surface
I can sense a current pulling,
struggling to fracture his bouyancy,
to force submission. He struggles for his life.
He struggles for my hand,
which is slipping, delicate, wounded.
I can hear all of the voices around me
like chants, calls of defeat or calls of victory;
I can never tell which.
I strain to make sense and all I get
is a deaf rattle in my mind,
where everything is colder than it is around me,
but not colder than the look of iron in his eyes.
I fear letting go,
I fear holding on.
But he would be my salvation,
if his feathers were only dry,
and it wasn't him in the water,
but instead it was I.

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