Memory of Water
When you told me once that grief comes in waves,
were you referring to your own death?
All of us still living trying to dissect our own meaning
as if it were pooled in our hands, slipping through the
cracks of our fingers.
Perhaps you meant to suggest that
memories are waves crashing into each other.
But have you ever tried to disentangle
water from water? Lives are like that too.
The writer in me wants to narrate a full circle, create
it neatly, preserve its meaning in certainty.
But I will not be the colonizer of your life.
How ridiculous to fabricate
borders in the ocean. Yes,
if I can curate anything it will be my own trust
in this wild unknown. Anyway, all this to say
let the waves take me.
I am strong enough to swim.