The opposite of the ocean is no ocean.


These days, I fall asleep
to the sound of my own

I haven’t ridden
a roller coaster
since my 20s.

I held a fistful
of coins then.

Numbered them,
but really they
were uncountable.

Yesterday, I wrote
a love song.
The radio dressed up

and called into a field—

That echo of dreaming—
Once, a man smiled at me
with all his teeth.

Then the field was lavender
and the wind braided
into my hair.

I am sitting in the kitchen
without socks, just skin
against linoleum.

Last year, we went
to New Orleans.
It was Valentine’s day

and we ate King’s Cake,
excavated a baby
from its sweet sticky flesh.

I kissed your cheek.

We ate gulf shrimp
at a round table
at the back of a smoky bar.

We were so full in those days.
Then I reached into the hearth
and pulled out the kindling.

You sustained me
with the warmth
of that low fire.

How does it feel to sleep alone?

One sock by the bed,
one on your foot.

You were
the foothold
that offered

itself up.
I’m not crying,
but, oh, I cannot stop.