Come Back to Me, My Melody

Six days after the Titanic sank,
the SS Bremen steamed into the same 
corridor of cold Atlantic waters.

During breakfast, the crew began to sight 
white dots like seagulls on the waves.
Their calls pulled the passengers away

from their coffee and strudel, brought them to the deck 
where at first they squinted, then recoiled.
Chunks of ice, broken planks and chairs

like dismantled weaponry, and frozen bodies 
of men and women with cork vests and belts 
still strapped tight around their waists.

Some of the dead wore gowns and dinner jackets; 
others were dressed in pajamas. Traceries
of fine crystal lined their eyes, the lapels

of their expensive coats. Many of the dead—
children, women, men—embraced each other 
with frosted hands. Knowing Canadian ships

had already been dispatched to retrieve the bodies, 
the Bremen did not stop. For two hours,
the vessel shouldered through debris and corpses.

Transfixed, the passengers felt their horror 
shift, give way to awe. So beautiful,
those pale, gently bobbing statues fixed

in final poses of suffering and love.
After the waters finally cleared, the living
returned to their warm staterooms and stared at books

they could not read. They wrote long letters 
to family, to friends they hadn’t seen
or thought about since childhood. When called to dinner,

they filled themselves with rich, warm soup. 
Awake, they dreamed: the inescapable peace 
of that expanse, azure stunned with sunlight.

Not yet, they thought, reaching for the hand 
nearest theirs. Perhaps someday soon,
but not today. They turned down their blankets, 

leaving a single lamp to glow in the dark.

Read more from Issue 21.2.