Death has risen in the sky
like a moon, cold & sharp,
slicing my sleep, daring me
to close my eyes, lest visions
of those I’ve lost burn my
brain to nothingness.  

So I think I’ll fly—no, swim,
since that night orb has its own
gravity—swim with mermaid
tail through passionflower
with its wavy filament & spoke-
centered pansy & poppy cauldron,
where all manner of stem & leaf
tickle my skin.  

And when I break surface & lean
on lily tongues & catch my breath
between hibiscus sails & tickseed
pinwheels, I may consider seeking
shade under coneflower parasols,
but my scales will flash, sun
bearers, nimbly-spangling green
ground where blade-  

waves swell, crest, ebb,
rhythmic cradles for a woman
who has given up her legs
& only wishes to be
reef-rocked, where anemone
curls & unfurls & blanket
octopi cover her with their
maroon streamers.