The Last Twenty Pages
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It was too sweet for her this morning
when she walked with nothing in her hands,
hoping for feathers.

Later, she ran across the water
and tripped. You could tell
by her knees.

Now she lies in black
reading Wide Sargasso Sea,
the last twenty pages.

It’s always the last twenty pages.
And no fishes when I swim into
warm places like napkin rings.

Both of us missed the light yesterday
that came clear under today
in almost unanimous shafts

the water grated. Above us
was tacking, floating, skiing,
mountain, sky.

Some were on land,
packing to leave and down about it,
and one was staying, a little girl,

to catch another frog and see it.
But none of us could be at home
on the water, or in it.

So most of the time we spent
was shored up for longing
after we went.