Today I searched for her body
in naval museum archives built of sweating
stone and plaster. I found only living
mold over print, covering pages indexed
in her name. Later, a bird struggled
in my stairwell, its wings beating inside
a small space sounding so muscular
that I covered my face as I'd wanted to, making love
with him tonight, but our fingers wound
together, and we arched apart at the root,
muscles blinking as if something between us
were struggling inside our one
body. He slept. And she showed herself,
standing on hardwood still readied for battle:
her body, strong as two roots
wrapped together and lengthening, hands twisted
around dirk and pistol, sticky-limbed, toes
gripping wood. This is what I fear: she lived
an entire life in this clasp, of man and woman
inseparable.