by Daniel Edward Moore
The unnerving part was calming.
Stuck between affection
and the touch and go of words,
my arm was an anchor’s chain
on the flight deck of our past.
Your face, a troubled secret
in a storm that swept me sideways.
Dead in the water, feeding fish
the crumbs of war-burned bones,
I turned blue without you
but did not love the sea.
At least not in that moment
every sailor knows.
The one where smoke
pretends not to be a coffin’s sky.
The one when all that matters
is the life-boat of your mouth.
Not every port is friendly.