Letter to G.H.

G.H. I was with you 

in tangled sheets as you aired

out every single secret you had unearthed

that day, like fish fossils caught 

in rock. Gutted and boney, its

minerals are from past lives. I want to tell you

now, how on the beach, I hold those same

sediments in my hand, sift a feather 

and two bones from the sand and think

of you.

G.H. that night, with only hollowed 

out darkness between us, you said you’d seen

a cockroach, stared at its shelled 

body and closed the closet door

right on its middle. You said you’d panicked,

felt a newness that cracked

you open and so you let its insides 

stain our hardwood floors instead 

of oozing out yourself. In truth 

I think you saw yourself caged

in the reflection of beady eyes and couldn’t stand

it. We are human, kept animals, remember? 

We both stretch toward heavy homes

or boxes. In the autumn sea, I find it funny

how quickly I court confinement

how easily I freeze and forget to kick

my feet. G.H. you should know

I see you on my shore 

too, in the unbounded horizon 

and the bird storm that surrounds me,

gulls floating, lifted limitlessly by air.

You were never so small as you seemed.