Nothing In The Living Room Looks Wet

-Nothing in the Living Room Looks Wet-

I sold wet in the estate sale, folded edges to a taut crease,
snickered at the purchaser’s silhouette.

Oh how I knew wet would lengthen along my porch -
Trying to hold on - you're so strong, but not that strong.

The purchaser was down the drive by this point, face turned the sun.
Wet was meant for her now: her epiphanies, her stemware, her thighs.

My days to follow like others - doors open, close. I let the cat out, let the cat in.
Then, one day you show up in my garden, singing:

Tell me the sea 
is dangerous
please. 


You disappear through the gate. I follow you into the fog -
watch puddles dry where your feet have been.

The living room never talks about its feral cats –
its wild horses – its strangers who swim like music.

Remember when we were strangers who swam like music?
You had cleared one side of the room, took my hand -

So we can have a wide open space, you said and lead me to the center.

The walls turn to horizon and rock, and we were at sea on a high cliff,  
the tide rose and waves crashed.


Years later, I still can't get the salt out of my hair.
Let's be sea creatures next time.