Old loves have fallen like soft raindrops
into my dreams lately.
My first husband.
I still won't call you by name, you notice.
To do so is to remember
when you still loved me,
and an ocean of tears bars
that time from now.
I dreamed I found our old sailboat
crushed deep into the sands.
Despite screaming birds scavenging
and old men with metal detectors keening,
I discovered a winch, our flag,
that bracelet you gave me for my birthday,
and a photo of us mugging,
mouths open, for an unseen photographer.
You kissed me after, hands already tugging
the edge of my tee, eager to go below
for what we seemed to do best.
I gathered my findings, carried them upshore
and buried them.
A final graveyard of memories.
I didn't bury the flag.
I left that as a warning for new lovers
to take good care in their own odysseys,
a reminder not to wear blinders
against shoals lurking ahead
in the shivering, desolate night.
For those of you who left messages yesterday, thank you. I'm hanging in.