Estuary

My house faced an estuary.

I looked for where ocean tide

instructed river flow.

I was more river, pliant

to the sea, and did no roving.

Supple as current, and as reckless, I was

a loose believer.

My face, an estuary.

My river-mouth. Ocean-eyed.

~

Mornings were a drowned city. Gulls

fell from the fog, their voices

trailing chords of hunger.

They say absence culls the wayward,

that the derelict leaf

soon ashes and is air.

Who says?

Well,

I heard it said. And, sensing my own

diminishment, know it.

~

Color of water—

not blue, not clarity.

Heard the loon

brooding regret,

or caution: The darkest

pools of water

form the sky’s silhouette.

~

I was not good. The house sank,

the soggy bank would not hold.

A spirit rocking like a boat

took me to this between place.

Took me for goodness—

I mistook. No, misspoke.

The poverty grass

flowering in the dunes. True, what is

ruinous

is also vital. When I swim to the estuary,

I will not know where I am.

~

I chased the breakers, their compass of come

and come again.

Believe me,

the bay mothered the cove, and both

are outlet and inlet: Let down,

let go.

Where the swallowed voice

becomes the choking voice.

In the estuary,

I saw a face of silent answer.