as an old jagged rock face, dark green in the dark cloudy light.

And that vine––twisting around whatever it touches––

as my worry

I miss not only what my husband sees

but also him. Why

do I think finding the mystery is work? Why,

even in the waves, am I thinking

of the waves? The pulling out to ocean,

the pushing back to shore.

Goosebumps, wet hair troubled by wind, salt on my lips––Please,

let my scared mother die, not soon, in her sleep.

Let my scared sister not call and call me, sobbing.

Let me speak, just this once,

once more, to myself

as I spoke to myself after I had a baby

as if I was my baby, dear baby girl.