The black bowl of sky overturned in the water
at our ankles. Though it seemed we could stand
on its gin-clear reflection, our feet swirled
up sands, blotting the stars. Then we were only
two women with pants hiked up
in the muddy shallows, dirt rings
in our ears, the smell of fins and gutted
fish on our hands, the layered sediment of making
a living. That night I found your arms
had hardened like mine, your eyes turned the harsh
blue of spiked fins. And I couldn't hide
inside my clothes, my body. Even my palm
was a way in, a kitchen knife wound healed
on my hand, stitched together like a mouth
that wants to be open. I want to ask, Will I leave
anything of worth behind, besides you?
Carved ivory candleholders, table settings straight
from the silversmith, precious lotions rubbed
rosy into the complexion: some women inherit
these makings of a rich life, but we
have to steal them. We stood on the sky's fragile
reflection that night. No one saw us. When we
kissed, it was a bond made of nothing: one breath
gripped in the fists of our lungs.