She was twenty-four, lovely as royal
garden, intellect like sunlit ocean,
yet twisted in emotional coil
of her mom’s early death, obsessed notion
she’d match her swift demise at twenty-five.
She, not we, survived. I proved both faithful
and errant knight. Grateful for both our lives,
I’d offer silent thanks; tender, careful
touches followed by passionate caress;
then sink like a folded sponge, soaked and swelled
in self-absorption. We both would, I guess,
swirling through days and nights, frightened, propelled
like lost dolphins, flailing breaches to save
ourselves, burst-pulses lost in roaring waves.
Roger Armbrust
November 19, 2007
