Attempt

First, the water
was cold, then
so, so warm.

Afterwards, I
sat at the old kitchen table
soaking the carpet — baggage
heavier than ever with the wet
and still tied to my knees.

You offered me a piece of cake.
I shivered even as I took it
and tried to wash it down
with milk, beer, anything
but water.

Mind you don’t
stain things, you said.
I minded because
mind is all I can do.

I think about the cold
and the cake, the water
and the lovely old silt on the bottom
of the sound, the chafing of the ropes
and the things I carry when I walk,
anywhere I walk.

If I could feel instead of think
I’d still be feeling the warm. I’d be feeling it
in my stomach, my arms, in the rush
of it coming inside when I finally let go
and breathed.

Instead, I will take another piece of cake.
I think you’ve got the recipe down at last
but telling you that wouldn’t be me.
Instead, I will stain whatever there is.

Instead. Instead —
there’s a dry, cold world
on this side
of that sound.