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.