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The diver is my own love
(and I am his, if I am to be deceived)
who takes one breath above for every hour below the sea,

Who gave to me a jewel
worth twice this woman's life, though it cost her less
than laying at low tide to see her true love phosphoresce.

And in an infinite regress,
tell me why is the pain of birth
lighter borne than the pain of death?
I ain't saying that I loved you first,
but I loved you best.

I know we must abide
each by the rules that bind us here:
the divers and the sailors and the women on the pier.

And how do you choose your form?
How do you choose your name? How do you choose your life?
How do you choose the time you must exhale and kick and rise?

And in an infinite capsize,
like a boat tearing down the coast,
double hulls bearing double masts.
I don't know if you loved me most,
but you loved me last.

Recall the word you gave
to count your way across the depths of this arid world,
while you will lurk the waves that lay a bed of shining pearls.

I dream it every night:
the ringing of the praying, the motes of sand dislodged, the shucking, quick and bright:
the twinned and cast off shells reveal a single heart of white.

And in an infinite backslide,
ancient boulders sink past the west,
like a sword at the bearer's fall.
I can't claim that I knew you best,
but did you know me at all?

A woman is a light, a woman is a light.
You do not take her for a siren
in anchor on a stone, alone and faceted and fine.

And never will I wed.
I'll hunt the pearl of death to the bottom of my life,
and ever hold my breath 'til I may be the diver's wife.

See how the infinite divides,
and the divers are not to blame
for the rift spanning distant shores.
You don't know my name,
but I know yours.

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