Saving You
Now you’re gone, all
of you.
No, you are there,
a rock island twelve
miles off…
Variation
“Stones” by Donald Hall
Keeping you
saved is not the same
as saving you
outright as diving
in frigid and broke
to grope where you
last went under
trying to remember
what you felt like
after all those years
away from me: you were
a fortress about me, a church
of hand carried
stone, a pew
to sit in with you
to pray away pain.
Keeping you
saved isn’t just
making it
to shore, turning you
over to empty you or
before, my mouth
on your mouth giving
you my breathing. Or
touching the scar
above your heart
with the paddle
of my hand electric
as want and love
can be to sweet shock
you back
to rhythm this side
of the tape keeping
you saved
drying you
combing you
cleaning you
feeding you when you don’t
speak, limp
and without give
like the weight
of your body
in the water
stone on stone on stone
as though
you’d been building
it all along
out there, a church, all
alone, Sweeny himself
by God but not
a bird yet, no
not yet
a bird.
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