Sonnet

Beneath the Surface

There is a face, the water lapping gracefully

across her brow, wintry and bitter with frost,

her hair blowing gently around her eyes

now milky with death, the sand in her pockets

feeding the fish on the ocean floor.

I stand above her, turning slowly to the moon

my hands shaking as time walks on, oysters

waiting for too long, the cold in my shoulders

spreading gradually to the blank white sky.

I walk from her, allowing the sun

to die in my hands, the memory imprinting

itself on my wrists. I should be rigid,

trapped beneath the surface; frigid and watching

the spiral of the stars as they fall through her lungs.