I cried. Before me, you
Cried first; sitting erect in
That fabulous goddamn posture.
Tears welled along your fragile
Eye line in sparkly puddles,
Quivering as I spoke slowly.
But the questions full of
Of bitter words got tangled,
Like the blue nets of Mallorca
Smelling of salt and sea, clotted
With dead shad hanging glassy
Eyed, blackness open to nothing.
Bait fish in nets meant for others.
You were smoking then, and the
Old men watched you exhale lustfully.
Your brown limbs shone in the pink
Sunset as the last light peeled back
Atlantic waters, revealing dusty stars.
Even in death the fish spoke with
Their nauseous stench but lovely
Shimmer, fluttering in the web.
This was my thought: dead fish
Staring with blank questions from
Black eyes as you withered, or
Rather, we withered in our own
Last light, the stench too great
To bear. Still, your beauty held.