My mother, blonde and bent,
cleans the garage, not even a year
after your death. She pulls on the miles
of dive equipment, cracked and black
hoses baked from deadpan heat.
Reminiscent of the years
they had lived underwater,
now piles of oxygen-starved heaps:
She continues late past summer,
counts three falling stars before bed,
dreams in metal, as wind chimes
sing out low from the east.
The sunrise will be sure to come,
stretch her body
across the half empty house.
Hours pass, hard as quartz,
pushing holes in the sky, and then,
she finds his dive slate, writing still legible;
it says, what you see are fish eggs.
Little sacs of life, the size of hope,
living inside their universe,
legs--all in oceanic unison, and
ghost-like as they emerge,
rising and falling
into each other's arms
deep inside the salt of the earth.
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