Once when the stern was going vertical I’d tried
to woo the woman, to convince her of my
fun-having quotient, a last-trench effort to convince her
that we could make something work:
I brought to her party some maracas aquamarine
with painted palm trees on a thick skin
impenetrable as her veneer of stability
and as bright as my vainglory.
After I bubbled up with the rest of the wreckage
I took a terrorist’s balm at the thought of how one of the pair had
lodged itself amid her
life somewhere, and felt the awe and festered
tragedy of a druid that I was stuck with the other.
Today in my storage’s floor, what do I find but
an aquamarine maraca? I felt the tragedy but
was surprised, when I gradually remembered the details, how I’d
forgotten about them and her. This was after, in child’s
curiosity, I’d broken it open to see what’s inside
it. It was only some dust in a chasm of air and some stones,
and the druid drew his last moan
and I laughed when the light struck those bones.