Ariadne, Abandoned

1 Minute Read Time

Photo by Sveta Luk on Unsplash

I

Your good-bye is a warning:
watch the horizon or you’ll miss my
return. It’s a worm in the belly of a
kelp-tangled gull, sea lions sparking
from rocks, hounds
sent to hunt you down
& bring me home; it’s white sails
swelling, my breasts in your palms.

I wake to an empty shore.


II

By summer’s end, all that’s left of your face
is how I imagine you that night: stumbling
over stone & bramble. How many times you
must have dropped the spool,
small as a fawn’s heart; how you looked
reaching in the dark.


III

Each night, an anchor lifts a little higher.
I drift bed to bed, tell new lovers my city-girl
mistakes: the downrigger weight
ripped from its rope because I didn’t mind
the water’s depth, my brightest lure
gone. New names of fish
swim over my tongue when I say them:
seabream, needlefish, the black cod caught at
two thousand feet, its forced union
with light, how easily it pulls from the bone.

Read more from Issue 16.2.

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