The Drowning

by Lindsay Rockwell

The Child That Lies Between Us

 

in this dark

in this bed

is quiet and soft.

I love her hands.

The fire of her undoes us.

Your eyes are wells.

Do you love your blood—

how it warms you.

Her hands are enough.

I drift. Drift

because between us

she is mast and stable.

Our lighthouse.

Do you love

the tiny things that teach

you to breathe—

She is the round

of not yet

verdant hills. The post

that anchors the gate.

Gate we painted one Wednesday

in June the color of silt.

She was once the oak

we planted

east of the northern corner

of never.

I love how we blanket

her small body

with our breath.

 

 

 

The Drowning

 

       After the pulling           her blank breath 

    we red-eyed            no grip no       hand to hold

 after the pulling        a pall          shrouded the beach

    wind barely sifted the summer heat          shock

swallowing          pulling          as if a gigantic star dying

   as if dying carved             of an unknown element

  we cannot       name       or hold its scent    its scent

shadow and remembrance            remember how

  she lay there         after the pulling            and you 

   after they took her away            you outlined

      the weight of her lain too long unmoving

   your finger    trembling      tracing     you almost 

lay down too          almost crawled inside her imprint

      I watched you      you so lost        we so silent

 soaked       in our stunning      we and she        and all

   our edges disappearing            when the tide came

 

 

 

 

What I Meant to Say

 

is more difficult than holding you

the breathing sound we made

was green was moss was fruit found

ripe and wanting tongue all I want

is your tongue to slide along

my belly where my want is endless

as that day we watched our death

swim away we were two blind

animals roaming the shore beneath

a confusion of constellations turning

above us and when I said farewell

what I meant to say is tether me

tether me with anything your shoelace

that color red you love that has no name

Lindsay Rockwell

Lindsay Rockwell is poet-in-residence for the Episcopal Church of Connecticut and hosts their Poetry and Social Justice Dialogue series. She’s published, or forthcoming, in CALYX, Gargoyle, Radar, The Dewdrop, among others. Her first collection, GHOST FIRES, was published by Main Street Rag, April 2023.